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X>y 


NATURE 
FOR  ITS  OWN  SAKE 

FIRST  STUDIES  IN  NATURAL 
APPEARANCES 


BY 

JOHN   0.  |VAN   DYKE 

AUTHOR  Of  "  ART  FOB  ART'S  SAKE  " 


FIFTH  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1896,  BY 
CBART.K8  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Co 

FRANK  THOMSON 
WHO  KNOWS  AND  LOVES  NATURE- 


PREFACE 

THE  title  and  the  treatment  of  this  book  re- 
quire a  few  sentences  of  explanation.  The  word 
"  Nature,"  as  it  is  used  in  these  pages,  does  not 
comprehend  animal  life  in  any  form  whatever. 
It  is  applied  only  to  lights,  skies,  clouds,  waters, 
lands,  foliage — the  great  elements  that  reveal 
form  and  color  in  landscape,  the  component 
parts  of  the  earth-beauty  about  us.  In  treating 
of  this  nature  I  have  not  considered  it  as  the 
classic  or  romantic  background  of  human  story, 
nor  regarded  man  as  an  essential  factor  in  it. 
Nature  is  neither  classic  nor  romantic ;  it  is 
simply — nature.  Nor  is  it,  as  some  would  have 
us  think,  a  sympathetic  friend  of  mankind  en- 
dowed with  semi-human  emotions.  Mountains 
do  not  "  frown/'  trees  do  not ( '  weep,"  nor  do 
skies  "smile";  they  are  quite  incapable  of 
doing  so.  Indeed,  so  far  as  any  sympathy  with 
humanity  is  concerned, "  the  last  of  thy  brothers 
might  vanish  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  not 
iz 


PREFACE 


a  needle  of  the  pine  branches  would  tremble. '' 
"  Nature  for  its  Own  Sake,"  then,  means  simply 
that  herein  nature  is  considered  as  sufficient 
unto  itself.  The  forms  and  colors  of  this  earth 
need  no  association  with  mankind  to  make  them 
beautiful. 

So  far  as  application  or  illustration  is  con- 
cerned, my  argument  has  no  direct  bearing  upon 
any  branch  of  science,  literature,  or  art.  I  have 
used  scientific  facts  occasionally  to  point  a 
meaning  without  designing  a  scientific  book  ;  I 
have  in  places  spoken  of  literature,  but  the  book 
is  not  an  appeal  to  nature  from  those  who  have 
written  about  it ;  and  as  for  art,  the  word  does 
not  appear  after  this  preface.  Painters  or  writ- 
ers, with  their  truth  or  falsity  of  statement,  are 
not  my  present  concern.  What,  then,  is  the 
object  of  the  book  ?  Simply  to  call  attention  to 
that  nature  around  us  which  only  too  many  peo- 
ple look  at  every  day  and  yet  never  see,  to  show 
that  light,  form,  and  color  are  beautiful  regard- 
less of  human  meaning  or  use,  to  suggest  what 
pleasure  and  profit  may  be  derived  from  the 
study  of  that  natural  beauty  which  is  everyone's 
untaxed  heritage,  and  which  may  be  had  for  the 
lifting  of  one's  eyes. 

In  measure  these  pages  are  records  of  per- 


PREFACE  50 

sonal  impression,  and  must  be  so  regarded  by 
the  reader.  However  objective  in  treatment 
one  might  wish  to  be,  his  point  of  view  is  always 
more  or  less  warped  by  the  personal  equation, 
and  I  can  pretend  to  nothing  more  than  a — 
view.  As  the  sub-title  indicates,  these  impres- 
sions are  general  in  character — in  fact  "first 
studies. "  The  book  is  designed  as  an  intro- 
duction to  a  subject  which  I  hope  to  consider 
more  fully  hereafter. 

SAGE  LIBKABT,  J.   0.  V.  D. 

NEW  BKUNSWICK,  N.  J. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I.  Pure  and  Reflected  Light. — Our  knowledge 
of  light — How  light  is  obstructed  by  atmosphere — Dust 
and  vapor  particles  in  the  air— Pure  sunlight  violet- 
blue— White  light  the  residue  after  filtering  through  the 
air — Differences  in  light — Shown  in  cleared  air — And 
from  mountain-tops — Earth  coloring  regulated  by  density 
of  the  air — Warm  and  cold  colorings — The  dust  veil — 
Krakatoa  and  the  red  skies — Color  ia  the  tropics — And  at 
the  poles — Sunlight  in  summer — The  dawn — In  Egypt 
with  its  wings  of  light— In  temperate  climes — Flooding 
of  the  dawn-light— The  sunrise— Sunrise  colors— Noon- 
light— Its  great  beauty  in  the  fields— The  fall  of  light- 
Sunset— Red  sun  disks— Sunset  colors— Spectrum  colors 
on  the  sky— Sky  effects— Twilight— Zodiacal  light^The 
moon  and  its  rise — The  misshapen  moon — Twilight  and 
moonlight  blended — Horizon  hues  at  twilight — Star-light 
—Star-colors— Darkness  of  the  upper  space— Lights  of 
the  night — The  great  variety — Countless  changes — Beauty 
of  the  world 1 

CHAPTER  II.  Broken  and  Shaded  Light.— Cloud  light 
and  the  cloud  veil — The  lowery  day — Rain  clouds — Storm 
light — Night  and  storm  clouds — Mists  and  fogs — Vapor 
lights — White  horizons — Fog  lights — Fog  and  smoke — 
Fog  effects— Color  in  fog  banks— Nature's  delicate  hues 
—Alternate  sunlight  and  cloud  light— Sun-bursts— The 
fall  of  sunbeams — Sun-shafts  with  rain — The  sun  "  draw- 
xiii 


CONTENTS 


ing  water  " — Sun-bursts  and  flying  shadows  in  Scotland — 
Moon-bursts  and  moon  beams— Shaded  light— The  law 
of  shadows— Electric-light  shadows— Shadows  lightened 
by  light-diffusion — Shadows  in  hot  weather — The  colored 
shadow — Scientifically  explained— Complementary  hues 
in  shadow— Necessary  conditions  of  the  colored  shadow- 
Blue  shadows  on  snow — Lilac  shadows  on  clay  and  sand 
— The  mixed  colors  in  nature — Shadow  complications — 
The  shadowless  day — Odd  colors  in  shadow— Shadows  of 
the  moon— And  of  the  stars 26 

CHAPTER  HI.  The  Slue  Sky.—  Impressions  of  the 
sky — Transparency  of  the  blue — Sky  depth — Through  the 
clouds — Sky  reach — Sky  lines  seen  at  sea — Horizon 
lines — Sky  lines  seen  from  heights — Apparent  changes 
across  the  face  of  the  sky— Sky  waves  and  undulations— 
The  blue  seen  from  mountain-tops — The  Great  Silence 
of  the  firmament — The  blue  seen  from  the  valleys — Its 
changes  by  day  and  by  night— The  tenderness  of  its 
coloring — Our  non-observance  of  the  sky — And  of  sky 
tints — Alpine  glows  at  home — Skies  in  different  lands — 
Color  changes  through  atmosphere — Season  changes  in 
the  blue— Luminosity  of  the  blue— Transmitted  and 
reflected  light— Sky  lights  on  the  earth— Reflection  from 
the  blue — Atmospheric  reflection — The  dawn  an  illustra- 
tion of  atmospheric  reflection— And  also  a  symbol  in 
natural  religion 47 

CHAPTER  IV.  Clouds  and  Cloud  Forms.  —  Cloud- 
making—  Cloud  forms— Why  clouds  float— Effect  of  the 
winds— Effect  of  the  air-currents — Cloud  caps— Banner 
clouds— Self-renewal  of  clouds— Clouds,  how  acted  upon 
— How  moved — Day  and  night  cloud* — Classification  of 
the  families— The  cirrus— Whiteness  of  the  cirrus— Color 


CONTENTS  TV 

of  the  cirrus— The  cirro-stratus— Sun  and  moon  halos — 
The  cirro-cumulus— Dappled  and  mackerel  skies — The 
stratus — The  strato-cumulus — The  cumulus — Cumulus 
changes — Summer  clouds — Heap  clouds — Cloud  illusions 
— The  cumulo-nimbus — Silver  linings — The  nimbus — 
Forms  of  the  rain  cloud— Storm  clouds— Scattering  forms 
of  cloud— Scud,  wrack,  etc.— The  lightness  and  drift  of 
clouds — Cloud  fancies — Cloud  splendor  and  coloring — 
Seen  at  sunset — Seen  at  dawn  and  at  noon-time — Value 
of  clouds  in  landscape— Seen  with  a  low  sky  line 66 

CHAPTER  V.  Rain  and  Snow,— The  vapor-carrying 
capacity  of  air — Condensation — Causes  of  clouds  and 
rain— Eastern  storms,  how  produced— Warm  winds  and 
cold  mountains — In  the  high  Alps — The  rain-drop — Size 
of  the  drop — The  first  heavy  fall — Thunder-storms — 
Lightning  and  clouds  at  night— Rain-fringes— Surrounded 
by  rain  -The  rainbow — Three-day  storms — Rainy  days — 
After  the  storm — City  vs.  country  rain — Hail — Its  forma- 
tion—The hail  theories— The  falling  stones— Snow-flakes 
—Snow  on  the  mountains  and  rain  in  the  valley— The 
first  fall— Snow-storms — The  blizzard— Flying  snow— 
The  luminosity  of  snow — Snow  prisms — Brilliancy  of 
anow  reflection— The  snowy  landscape— Under  moonlight 
—Snow  lines— Snow  colors  and  shadows— Swirls  and 
drifts  — In  early  spring  —  Nature's  skeleton  —  Nature's 
awakening 88 

CHAPTBB  VI.  The  Open  Sea.— First  impressions— 
Sea-changes—Water  forms— The  strife  of  the  sea— Its 
restlessness  —  Wind  and  wave  — Wave  crests— Storm 
waves  — The  hurricane  sea— The  height  of  waves — 
Thickness  of  waves— Tropical  swells— Lines  of  a  wave- 
Northern  and  Southern  waves— The  undulation  and  wave 


XVI  CONTENTS 


motion — Depth  of  the  undulation — Local  hues  of  water — 
Sea-floors  and  their  influence  on  coloring — Deep-sea 
color — Gulf  and  bay  colorings — Mineral  hues  in  water — 
Color  patches — Sea  sawdust — Transparency  of  sea-color 
— Reflection  from  surface — The  smooth  swell  on  the 
Southern  seas — Northern  waters— Sky  effects  at  sea — 
Sunlight  on  the  wares — Moonlight  on  the  waves — Cloud 
shadows  upon  water — Colored  shadows  again — Cloudy 
days  at  sea— The  emerald-greens  of  storm— Atlantic  and 
tropical  waves — Following  the  equator 113 

CHAPTER  VII.  Along  Shore — On  the  beach— The 
coast-wave — Why  waves  break — Dancing  jets  under  a 
cliff — The  size  of  coast-waves — And  their  power — Forced 
and  wedged  waves — The  beach-comber— Water-mirrors 
on  the  beach — The  undulation  again — The  rising  of  the 
sea — Thrust  of  the  waves — Curves  of  sand  beaches — 
Wave  action  on  the  rocks — Cliff  undermining — Rock 
forms  made  by  water — Pulpits,  bridges,  and  caverns — 
Formation  of  sand-dunes — Sea  barriers — Bars,  lagoons, 
and  marshes— The  tides — Ebb  and  flood  tides— The  bare 
shores — Coast  lines — Color  and  light  upon  the  shore — 
Twilight  colorings — Moonlight  on  the  sea — The  coast  in 
storm — The  whipped  waves — The  uses  of  storm — Without 
the  sea 134 

CHAPTER  VIII.  Rwnnvng  Waters.— The  river  at  the 
sea— Meeting  the  ocean— The  river's  path— The  Plain 
Track— Through  the  meadows— The  river's  basin— The 
sluggish  flow— The  Valley  Track— The  river  island- 
Hurrying  waters — New  movement — The  wear  of  water — 
The  sculptor  of  the  land — Valley  and  mountain  carvings 
—Oscillations  of  the  stream— Lines  of  the  banks  and  the 
vater— Color  on  the  river— With  enow  and  under  ice— 


CONTENTS  rm 

Freshets— Floods— The  Mississippi— The  river  as  it  was 
and  as  it  is — European  rivers — The  Thames,  the  Khine, 
the  Danube — The  Mountain  Track— Brooks — The  moun- 
tain-brook and  its  motion— In  the  ravine — The  gorge — 
Following  the  brook — By  the  waterfall — The  cataract — 
Niagara — Brook  reflections — The  frozen  stream — Purity 
of  brook  waters — The  river's  source — Catch-basins — The 
rivulet — The  beginning  of  the  stream 153 

CHAPTER  IX.  Still  Waters.— Names  of  seas  and  lakes-* 
Definitions — Lakes  vs.  oceans — The  mountain-lake — Its 
various  features — Purity  and  clarity  of  its  waters — Lake 
charm  and  sentiment — Local  coloring  of  the  water — 
Colors  of  background — Local  hue  and  reflection — Con- 
fusion of  hues — Reflections — Seen  at  night — Confusion 
of  reflections  with  shadows — Surface  appearances  and 
phases  of  reflection — On  darkened  waters — On  strong- 
hued  waters— Variations  and  distortions— The  likeness 
inexact — The  angle  of  reflection — Elongated  reflections — 
The  Angels'  Pathway — Romance — Moonlight  on  the  lake 
—Material  beauty  of  American  lakes— Lake  George  a 
type — The  pond  in  the  forest — The  prairie  pond — In 
Indian  days — Artificial  waters — Venetian  lagoons  and 
canals — Holland  canals — The  mountain-lake  once  mow — 
Its  serene  beauty 174 

CHAPTER  X.  The  Earth  Frame. — Earth  and  sea— The 
earth's  surface — Inequalities  of  the  surface — The  skeleton 
of  the  earth — Strength  of  the  frame — Formation  of  the 
crust — Geological  formations — Solidity  of  the  earth — 
Permanence  of  the  flat  prairies — And  of  the  primeval 
forests— And  of  the  desert— The  sands  of  Sahara— The 
vaulting  of  the  globe — The  understructure  of  the  Alps — 
The  base  of  the  Jungfrau  from  Miirren — Foundations  of 


xviii  CONTENTS 


mountains — The  hardness  of  rocks — Nature's  building 
principle — The  self-supporting  globe — The  lines  of  the 
earth—Shadow  of  the  earth  upon  the  sky— The  arch  of 
the  sky— Horizon  lines  at  sea  and  on  the  prairie— The 
curved  line  and  "the  line  of  beauty"— The  law  of  the 
circle — Shown  in  the  forms  of  nature — And  in  the 
elements  and  the  solar  system — Circles  in  physical  and 
intellectual  life — The  uttermost  rim  of  thought— The 
Tanity  of  progress — The  universal  law 197 

CHAPTER  XI.  Mountains  and  Hills. — Mountain  ridges 
— How  the  mountains  are  formed — The  wrinkle  or  fold 
theory — The  Alps — The  age  of  mountains — Denudation 
and  erosion— The  old  Appalachians — The  worn-down 
mountains — Exposed  crusts — Mountains  cut  out  by  water 
— The  approach  to  the  mountains  from  the  plains — Seen 
from  a  distance — Mountain-climbing — The  view — The 
panoramic  scene— From  the  high  Alps— The  look  down- 
ward—Distorted light  and  color— The  look  upward— The 
clouds  and  the  sky — The  mountains  from  the  valley — 
Mountain  colors — The  lower  ranges— Sky  lines— Moun- 
tains at  sunrise — At  noon — At  sunset — The  western 
barrier — Looking  eastward  at  sunset — Mountain  glow  at 
sunset — The  Alps  in  storm — Storm  in  the  lake-reflection 
— Mountain  individuality — Changes  of  form— Of  color- 
Influence  of  atmosphere — Light  changes — The  green 
hills—  English  bills— New  England  ranges— Hills  in 
landscape — The  levelling  down 213 

CHAPTER  XII.  Plains  and  Lowlands. — Impressions 
received  from  lines— Valley  silence— Echoes  and  rever- 
berations— Valley  shadows — Sunset  valleys — The  age  of 
the  valley — The  brook  again — Valleys  in  autumn  and 
in  winter— The  valley  home — The  table-lands— In  Mon- 


CONTENTS  3OX 


tana — The  Bad  Lands — Colors  of  decay — Plateaus  and 
steppes — The  primeval  tracts — The  American  prairie — 
Prairie  fires — Treeless  tracts — The  roll  of  the  divides  and 
swalea — Prairie  wildness — Nature's  revenges — The  wil- 
derness again— Flat  plains— Low-lying  tracts  by  sea  OT 
river — The  livable  lands — Sky  and  horizon  once  more — 
The  marshes  and  meadows — Reeds  and  rushes — FlagB 
—Beauty  of  the  commonplace— The  marsh  landscape- 
Near  to  civilization — The  bottom-lands — Swamps  and 
jungles 235 

CHAPTER  XIII.  Leaf  and  Branch.— The  New  World 
vegetation — The  foliage  in  America — Timber  growths — 
Variety  of  forests — Depths  of  the  timber — The  "Big 
Woods" — Botanical  classes  of  trees — Tree  characteris- 
tics—Tree forms— Branch  ramifications — The  pathetic 
fallacy — The  so-called  sentiment  of  trees — Life  of  the  oak 
— Tree  motion — Sounding-trees — Leaves  in  motion — 
Trees  in  storm — Winds  in  the  forest — Bare  boughs — In 
March — The  March  harmony — Warming  color — The 
budding  season — Summer  foliage — Variety  of  the  green§ 
—Light  transformations  —  Swift  color-changes —The 
trees  in  blossom — Blossom  storms — Autumn  glory — 
Indian  summer — The  scarlet  foliage — Harmony  of  the 
scarlet  landscape — Nature's  sacrifices — Tree  contrasts — 
Tropical  forests — American  forests — European  wood- 
lands   253 

CHAPTER  XIV.  Earth  Coverings. — Trees  and  shrubs — 
Bush  growths — The  substitutes  of  nature — Laurel  and 
rhododendron — California  chapparal — Sage  brush — Up- 
land bushes — Common  growths — Wild  roses — Growths 
under  shadow — Fern  and  bracken — Scotch  heather — 
Heather  color— Golden-rod— Blue  asters — Bushes  and 


CONTENTS 


flags — Meadow  growths — The  grasses — The  earth-pro- 
tectors—  Meadow  and  pasture  —  The  natural  vs.  the 
artificial — Meadow  flowers— The  wealth  of  color— Past- 
ure changes — Nature's  care — Cultivated  growths — House 
and  lawn  flowers — The  mosses — Moss  structure — Moss 
colors  and  textures — Gray  lichens — Rock-staining  by 
lichens — The  work  of  the  mosses  and  lichens — Heat, 
light,  and  moisture  —  Nature  immortal  — The  Great 
Peace 273 


NATURE 
FOR  ITS  OWN  SAKE 


NATURE  FOR  ITS  OWN  SAKE 


CHAPTER  I 
PURE  AND  REFLECTED  LIGHT 

A  PISH  at  home  under  some  ledge  of  rock  in 
the  depths  of  the  sea,  what  does  it  know  of  sun- 
light ?  Doubtless  the  pupils  of  its  eyes  con- 
tract and  expand  with  the  lights  and  shadows 
that  break  across  the  hills  and  valleys  of  the 
ocean  world,  but  how  dim  must  be  those  lights, 
how  densely  dark  those  shadows  !  A  ray  of  sun- 
shine passing  through  five  hundred  feet  of  wa- 
ter is  broken,  deflected,  almost  extinguished  ; 
and  the  eyes  that  look  upward  toward  the  light 
through  that  great  green  lens  of  wave  can 
gather  but  a  faint  glimmer  of  the  truth.  They 
are  focused  for  the  ocean  depths,  and  when  the 
fish  is  brought  up  to  the  open  day  the  eyes  are 
instantly  set,  and  stare  without  meaning.  The 
first  flashing  sunbeam  doubtless  shocks  them 
senseless.  The  truth  when  revealed  is  blinding, 
and  our  sunlight  is  final  truth  to  the  fish. 


Knowledge 
of  light. 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


We  have,  perhaps,  a  contempt  for  the  knowl- 
edge of  light  possessed  by  the  inhabitants  of 
the  deep,  but  our  contempt  is  somewhat  shal- 
low. For  we  ourselves  are  living  at  the  bottom 
of  an  even  greater  sea — the  vast  atmospheric 
ocean.  We  are  looking  up  to  the  light  through 
countless  strata  of  air  that  break  and  twist  and 
shatter  the  sunbeam — looking  up  not  through 
five  hundred  feet,  but  probably  five  hundred 
miles  of  air- wave.  Perhaps,  were  we  brought  up 
and  out  of  our  sea  and  into  the  regions  of  space, 
our  eyes,  too,  might  be  blinded  by  the  sharp  shaft 
of  a  pure  and  clear  sunlight.  Our  knowledge  of 
it  is  only  comparative,  a  step  upward  from  that 
of  the  fish.  The  truth  in  the  superlative  de- 
gree will  never  be  attained.  Human  eyes  have 
never  seen  pure  sunlight,  and  that  white  light 
which  we  regard  as  such  is  anything  but  pure. 
It  is  not  the  sum  of  all  radiation,  as  we  are  ac- 
customed to  think,  but  the  residue,  that  which 
remains  after  the  passage  through  atmosphere. 

The  air  we  breathe  is  filled  with  countless 
particles  of  dust,  smoke,  soot,  salt  crystals, 
vapor ;  and  these  particles  break  light  into 
color  by  obstructing  the  beams.  The  sun  ray 
is  thus  disintegrated  as  soon  as  it  encounters 
our  outer  atmosphere.  Some  of  it  is  practically 


PURE  AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


lost  to  us  in  the  upper  air,  and  that  which 
finally  comes  on  down  to  the  earth  has  to  our 
eyes  a  prevailing  whitish,  reddish,  or  yellow 
tone,  dependent  upon  the  density  of  the  air.  If 
we  could  sweep  away  our  atmosphere  entirely, 
the  light  would  appear  bluish  and  the  sun  itself 
violet- blue.*  There  is  a  predominance  of  vio- 
let and  blue  in  sunlight,  but  the  waves  of  these 
colors  being  the  shortest  and  weakest  in  travel- 
ling power,  are  the  first  ones  to  be  caught  and 
absorbed  by  the  upper  atmosphere.  Held  in 
check,  entangled  as  it  were,  quantities  of  them 
are  massed  above  us,  making  what  we  call  "  the 
blue  sky."  The  yellow  and  red  waves,  having 
greater  length  and  power  than  the  blue  ones, 
penetrate  the  atmosphere  deeper  and  come  to 
us  with  the  tale  that  the  sun  is  yellow  or  red 
or,  in  combination  with  other  colors,  white. 

But  the  tale  is  deceptive.  Sunlight  in  its 
entirety  appears  whiter  and  then  bluer,  in  pro- 
portion as  we  rid  ourselves  of  our  atmospheric 
lens ;  and  the  sky  itself  grows  darker  from  the 
non-diffusion  of  the  sun's  rays.  An  ordinary 
rain-storm  that  clears  the  atmosphere  will  tem- 

*  This  is  the  conclusion  of  Professors  Langley,  Young, 
and  other  scientists.  If  seen  from  a  distant  world)  our 
sun  would  appear  as  one  of  the  blue  stars. 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


porarily  make  the  sky  and  distant  hills  look 
bluer,  the  sun  whiter,  the  light  purer.  Cold 
that  is  intense  enough  to  rid  the  air  of  moisture 
will  also  make  a  noticeable  difference  in  the 
quality  of  the  light.  In  Manitoba,  where  the 
thermometer  often  sinks  many  degrees  below 
zero,  a  bright  winter  day  reveals  an  air  the  moist- 
ure of  which  is  frozen  into  floating  crystals  of 
hoar-frost,  the  sky  appears  cobalt-blue,  the  sun 
is  white,  and  when  it  rises  in  the  morning  it  is 
accompanied  by  two  sun-dogs  or  parhelia,  one 
on  each  side,  and  almost  as  brilliant  as  the  sun 
itself.  The  result  is  a  bewildering  display  of 
white  light  that  borders  upon  blue.  Every 
snow  crystal  glitters,  the  cup  of  the  sky  seems 
to  be  lifted  into  infinite  space,  the  snow  shad- 
ows are  intensely  blue,  and  the  running  waters 
are  dark-purple  in  hue. 

As  we  rise  above  the  denser  strata  of  at- 
mosphere that  lie  along  the  earth,  by  ascend- 
ing mountain  heights  or  otherwise,  the  light 
changes  even  more  positively.  From  the  top 
of  Mt.  Blanc  the  stars  are  seen  at  midday  shin- 
ing upon  a  dark  blue- violet  field  that  extends 
down  to  the  horizon  ;  from  Pike's  Peak  the  sky 
is  seen  to  be  of  a  violet  hue  at  times,  and  not  in- 
frequently blue-black  ;  and  from  Mt.  Whitney 


PURE   AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


Professor  Langley  observed  the  sun  go  down, 
not  gorgeous  in  color,  but  coldly  luminous, 
with  the  dark  sky  crowded  close  up  to  the  disk, 
and  the  zenith  deep  violet-blue.  Whenever  or 
however  the  thickness  of  air  between  us  and  the 
sun  is  decreased,  the  coloring  of  light  changes, 
growing  from  a  yellow  flame  somewhat  like 
candle-light  to  something  kindred  to  the  blue- 
violet  flame  of  the  electric  arc-lamp. 

The  atmosphere  then  is  chiefly  responsible 
for  the  quality  of  our  light,  and  upon  the  clear- 
ness or  thickness  of  the  atmosphere  depends 
also  the  quality  of  our  coloring.  If  the  air  is 
comparatively  clear,  the  light  will  be  sharp  and 
the  prevailing  notes  of  color  in  landscape  will 
be  blue  and  green,  because  the  slightness  of  the 
interfering  media  allows  the  short  color-waves 
of  blue  and  green  to  come  on  down  to  earth  in 
great  quantities  ;  if  the  air  is  heavy  with  parti- 
cles, the  light  will  be  less  intense  and  the  notes 
of  landscape  will  be  yellow  or  red,  because  the 
density  of  the  interfering  media  allows  the 
stronger  color-waves  of  yellow  and  red  to  pass 
through  and  down  to  earth,  but  obstructs  the 
blues  and  greens.  It  is  owing  to  density  of  at- 
mosphere that  the  heated  portions  of  the  globe, 
like  Morocco,  for  instance,  are  less  strong  in 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


coloring  than  the  temperate  New  England,  not- 
withstanding the  intensity  and  the  directness  of 
the  sun's  rays  near  the  equator.  The  heat  of  the 
equatorial  region  produces  dryness  of  the  soil, 
and  dryness  produces  dust,  which  is  carried  up 
into  the  air  by  rising  currents.  This  obscures 
and  changes  the  color  of  light  more  effectually 
than  perhaps  we  realize.  Professor  Langley  tells 
us  that  from  the  top  of  Mt.  Whitney  he  saw 
this  dust  lying  below  him  like  a  great  reddish 
mist  suspended  four  or  five  thousand  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  surrounding  country.  It  can 
be  imagined  that  light  streaming  through  such 
a  mist  must  be  not  only  obscured,  but  must 
give  a  coloring  to  the  earth  of  yellow,  orange, 
and  red,  somewhat  as  the  coloring  of  a  room  is 
affected  by  red  or  amber  glass  placed  in  the 
windows. 

A  practical  illustration  of  a  dust-laden  at- 
mosphere and  its  color  effect  was  shown  us  in 
1883.  The  volcanic  eruption  of  Krakatoa  threw 
a  shaft  of  fine  ashes  some  eighteen  miles  directly 
into  the  air,  where  it  was  caught  by  the  winds, 
and  swept  around  the  globe  ;  and  for  months  this 
fine  ash  was  slowly  settling  through  the  atmos- 
phere to  the  earth  again.  The  result  was  a  tur- 
bid air  and  an  extraordinary  series  of  red  dawns 


PUEE  AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


and  sunsets  seen  in  many  lands.  In  Spain, 
where  I  happened  to  be  a  year  later,  the  dawns 
were  the  most  ruddy  I  have  ever  witnessed ; 
and  each  night  the  sun  went  down  hissing 
hot  into  the  Atlantic  like  a  ship  on  fire,  throw- 
ing great  naming  signals  of  distress  far  up  the 
zenith  as  it  sank. 

But  while  the  dust  veil  may  produce  great 
mass  and  variety  of  colors,  these  are  not  neces- 
sarily of  the  highest  intensity.  The  most  brill- 1 
iant  hues  are  to  be  seen  where  the  light  falls ' 
the  clearest,  and  this  is  not  in  the  heated  tropics, 
but  near  the  cold  poles.  The  northern  countries 
have  not  the  many  local  colors  of  the  tropical 
lands,  but  those  they  possess  have  more  depth 
and  clearness.  No  palm  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile 
ever  had  such  brightness  of  greens  as  the  pine 
and  the  spruce  on  the  Norwegian  mountains. 
In  upper  Scandinavia  the  flowers  are  brighter, 
the  sky  and  water  deeper  blue,  the  mountains 
purer  purple,  the  sunsets  more  scarlet  than  in 
Italy,  Greece,  or  Algiers.  And  we  all  know  what 
report  the  arctic  explorers  have  brought  back 
to  us  of  brilliant  skies,  flaming  Northern 
Lights,  and  intense  blues  in  water,  ice,  and 
snow  seen  in  the  polar  regions.  There  is  not 
the  slightest  reason  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the 


Color  in  the 
tropic*  and 
at  the  north. 


colors. 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


report.  Theory  and  observation  both  confirm 
it.  A  red,  a  blue,  or  a  green  at  the  north  is 
harsh,  intense ;  where  near  the  equator  it  is 
slightly  bleached  or  blended  with  other  colors 
by  reflection.  That  the  latter  is  more  harmo- 
nious than  the  former  is  quite  aside  from  the 
present  tale. 

The  changes  in  color  and  light,  and  their  effect 
upon  the  world  about  us,  are  things  of  which 
many  of  us  living  in  the  temperate  climes  have 
small  appreciation.  Our  conventional  remark 
to  a  neighbor  in  passing,  "  A  fine  day  !  "  means 
merely  that  we  find  the  weather  normal  and 
the  sun  shining.  We  have  never  stopped  to 
study  the  varieties  of  illumination  and  hue 
that  weave  and  interweave  through  that  day. 
It  is  merely  a  glittering  generality  to  us ;  yet 
from  dawn  to  dawn  how  marvellous  is  the 
light,  how  splendid  is  the  coloring  of  a  clear 
day  in  summer!  It  usually  begins  with  the 
faint  graying  of  the  eastern  sky  above  the 
horizon,  or  it  may  be  that  the  light  appears  at 
first  high  up  in  the  sky.  The  air  has  been 
cooled  and  somewhat  cleared  by  the  night 
just  past,  moisture  is  more  predominant  than 
dust,  and  the  consequent  sky-color  is  gray  or 
silver.  The  light  soon  extends  down  and 


PURE   AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


around  an  eighth  of  the  horizon  circle,  and 
then  perhaps  to  a  sixth  of  it ;  or  it  may  mount 
upward  in  the  shape  of  a  fan.  Sometimes  pale 
yellow  is  a  predominant  coloring,  and  in  warm 
weather  a  rose  hue  is  quite  frequently  shown. 
If  the  sky  above  the  horizon  is  barred  or 
streaked  with  clouds,  almost  any  conceivable 
color  may  be  reflected  from  them,  dependent 
upon  the  state  of  the  atmosphere  and  the  posi- 
tion of  the  clouds.  Again,  if  the  air  is  dense 
with  vapor  or  dust,  the  advance  arms  of  the 
sun  may  be  seen  reaching  far  over  the  night 
like  the  silver  shafts  of  an  enormous  search- 
light. 

These  premonitory  signs  of  the  coming  day 
are  often  extraordinary  in  their  appearances. 
For  instance,  in  Egypt,  during  the  heated 
season,  the  dawn  is  not  always  the  slow  steal- 
ing of  light  along  the  horizon.  On  the  con- 
trary, a  single  shaft  like  the  pinion  of  a  wing 
rises  upward  toward  the  zenith.  In  a  moment 
another  shaft  begins  rising  by  its  side,  and 
then  another  and  another,  until  the  whole  half- 
arch  of  the  heavens  resembles  two  spread  wings 
poised  perpendicularly.  These  are,  I  imagine, 
the  biblical  wings  of  the  morning  that  fly  to 
the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth.  At  other 


ro 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


times  the  Egyptian  dawn  shows  a  mild  effect 
of  sun-dogs,  such  as  are  frequently  seen  in  cold, 
snowy  lands.  In  the  one  case,  the  parhelia  are 
produced  by  ice  crystals  in  the  air,  in  the  other 
case  by  dust  crystals  in  the  air.  They  are 
more  brilliant  from  ice  than  from  dust,  and 
where  with  the  one  they  centre  in  great  spots 
of  light,  with  the  other  they  shape  themselves 
into  side  illuminations  that  resemble  wings 
spread  laterally.  These,  I  imagine  again,  are 
the  wings  of  light  supporting  the  golden  disk 
of  the  sun,  that  may  be  seen  to  this  day  carved 
on  the  temple  lintels  of  ancient  Egypt. 

But  the  dawn  in  our  temperate  clime  is  not 
so  unusual  in  appearance.  It  is  with  us  the 
gradual  expansion  and  intensifying  of  radiance. 
The  light  is  a  soft,  lustrous  one,  illuminating 
the  earth  entirely  by  reflection.  While  the 
sun  is  below  the  horizon  no  direct  rays  can 
possibly  reach  us.  The  shafts  are  shot  up 
against  the  blue  vault,  and  from  this  trans- 
parent blue  of  atmosphere  they  are  reflected 
back  to  earth.  It  is  not  a  bright  or  sharp  re- 
flection. The  rays  are  bent  and  thrown  back 
only  by  the  infinitesimal  particles  that  float  in 
the  upper  air.  Even  when  the  shafts  strike  a 
cloud  they  simply  make  it  glow  like  a  great 


PUKE   AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


11 


pearl,  and  the  glow  is  infinitely  more  delicate 
for  its  surrounding  of  translucent  atmosphere. 
Yet  the  great  vault  is  illumined,  and,  as  the 
sun  rises  higher,  far  to  the  north  and  far  to 
the  south,  half-way  around  the  circle,  a  tapes- 
try of  silver  and  gold  is  weaving  on  a  blue-gray 
ground,  and  the  dark  ultramarine  of  the  west 
turns  a  shade  paler  and  seems  to  lift  into 
space  as  the  light  grows  stronger.  How  like 
the  flooding  of  the  tide  this  light  drifts  up, 
and  in  this  great  aerial  ocean  bringing  with  it 
warmth  and  color !  Soundless  and  surgeless, 
rolling  in  waves  too  translucent  to  be  seen,  ris- 
ing higher  and  higher,  yet  meeting  with  no 
ultimate  shore,  how  gloriously  it  sweeps  up 
and  over  the  world !  How  swiftly  even  the 
''meagre  cloddy  earth"  borrows  a  splendor 
from  above  and  reflects  the  flush  of  light  and 
color  !  The  mists  stir,  the  trees  tremble  gently, 
the  dew  slips  from  leaf  to  stem,  and  the  whole 
globe  seems  to  awaken  from  slumber. 

There  is  nothing  more  beautiful  in  all  nature 
than  this  flooding  of  light  across  the  sky,  across 
the  earth  ;  yet  even  as  we  watch  it  a  great 
change  takes  place.  The  sun  peers  over  the 
horizon  and  the  first  beam  of  light  strikes 
full  upon  the  mountain's  highest  minaret  of 


12 


NATURE  FOB   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


rock,  splashing  it  with  a  pale  golden  hue.  At 
once  the  hue  begins  to  creep  down  from  the 
mountain-top,  striking  the  oaks  and  cedars 
one  by  one  with  yellow  shafts  until  the  whole 
hill-side  is  mantled  with  its  color.  Swiftly  the 
light  spreads  to  the  valley,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments it  falls  upon  the  fields  and  meadows.  Im- 
mediately begins  the  phenomenon  of  light  being 
broken  and  obstructed  by  opaque  bodies  such 
as  hills  and  trees,  and  we  have  the  effect  of 
light-and-shade.  Immediately,  too,  the  swift 
vibration  of  those  points  of  light  productive  of 
color  is  increased,  and  we  have  the  brilliant 
hues  that  mark  the  earth  under  sunshine. 
Every  lake  and  stream  and  open  sea  warms  in 
color  and  glances  the  image  of  the  sun,  and 
every  hill-side  and  mountain-crag  receives  the 
stain  of  gold.  Not  the  great  objects  alone,  but 
the  infinitely  little,  the  pale  wind-flower,  the 
lowly  buttercup,  the  yellow-centred  daisy,  the 
tiny  violet,  the  leaf -whorl  of  the  moss,  all  put 
on  their  brightest  garments,  each  one  lifting 
its  head  to  the  sun  as  the  great  glory  of  the 
universe. 

As  the  sun  rises  higher  the  splendor  becomes 
more  widely  diffused.  The  color  of  the  rose 
leaps  to  a  high  pitch,  the  top  of  the  willow  is  a 


PURE  AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


13 


mass  of  silver,  the  poplar  seems  to  shake  light 
from  its  leaves  as  though  they  were  trembling 
little  mirrors.  By  contrast  the  shadows  across 
the  lawn  and  along  the  mountain-side  seem 
darker,  though  in  reality  they  are  lighter ;  and 
the  light  itself  may  seem  fainter  because  widely 
diffused,  whereas  it  is  stronger  and  fiercer.  By 
ten  o'clock  the  sun  is  quite  high  in  the  heav- 
ens. Heat  is  radiating  from  the  earth.  Strata 
of  warm  air  are  forming  along  the  ground, 
moving  uneasily  hither  and  thither  in  their 
search  for  an  exit  through  the  colder  air  to  the 
upper  regions.  Dust  and  moisture,  too,  are 
rising ;  and  by  noon  perhaps  there  is  a  haze 
lying  along  the  hills  and  meadows,  the  distant 
valleys  look  gray  and  warm  in  the  sunlight,  the 
mountains  beyond  them  are  faintly  blue,  the 
sky  itself  looks  yellow  or  rosy.  Color  is  every- 
where, more  predominant  than  in  the  morning, 
but  less  contrasted,  because  the  atmosphere  has 
blended  and  toned  all  nature  to  its  own  golden 
hue. 

How  different  this  hot  light  of  noon  from 
the  dawn-light !  The  latter  is  preferred  be- 
cause it  is  soft  and  agreeable  to  the  eyes,  but  it 
would  be  difficult  to  imagine  anything  more 
beautiful  or  more  splendid  than  bright  sun- 


The  light  at 


14 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


light  beating  at  midday  npon  a  field  of  ripened 
grain  where  the  fiery  red  of  the  poppy  gleams 
in  between  the  yellow  stalks ;  or  again  this 
same  light  falling  upon  fields  of  golden-rod  or 
npon  great  masses  of  variegated  autumn  foliage. 
Blinding,  too,  as  is  the  noon-light  upon  desert 
sands  or  prairie  uplands  or  flat  smooth  seas, 
yet  its  breadth  and  intensity  make  it  one  of 
nature's  great  glories.  And  how  invisibly  it 
cuts  through  the  air!  On  yonder  mountain 
we  should  notice  falling  rain  or  snow  or  even 
a  slight  thickening  of  the  atmosphere ;  yet 
all  day  long  the  sunbeams  fall  upon  it  and 
we  cannot  see  them.  We  see  the  mark  they 
make  on  crag  and  tree,  we  feel  their  absence 
when  a  cloud  shuts  out  the  sun  ;  but  that  is 
all. 

As  the  day  wears  on,  the  heat  increases.  The 
leaves  of  the  trees  and  the  flowers  curl  and 
shrivel,  the  air  rises  quivering  from  the  dusty 
road,  the  sky  grows  more  rosy — even  iridescent. 
The  ascending  air-currents  are  active  and  the 
atmospheric  particles  more  numerous.  Hour 
after  hour  the  aerial  envelope  grows  denser  and 
heavier,  the  shadows  fainter,  the  light  more 
diffused.  At  last,  when  the  sun  has  fallen  to 
the  western  horizon  and  throws  its  rays  along 


PURE  AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


15 


the  surface  of  the  earth,  they  pass  through 
many  miles  of  this  heated  dust-and-moisture- 
laden  air.  When  they  reach  our  eyes  they  tell 
the  oft-told  tale  of  the  brilliant  sunset.  The 
pale  grays  and  silvers  of  the  dawn,  produced  by 
the  sun's  rays  coming  to  us  through  a  cleared 
and  cooled  atmosphere,  have  now  changed  to 
the  golds  and  scarlets  of  the  evening,  produced 
by  the  rays  coming  to  us  through  a  heated  and 
a  thickened  atmosphere.  So  dense  is  the  air  at 
times  that  the  shafts  of  the  setting  sun  may  be 
distinctly  seen  radiating  up  the  sky  like  the 
spokes  of  an  enormous  fiery  wheel ;  and  again 
at  other  times  the  air  may  be  so  thick  that  it 
obscures  the  sun's  rays,  and  we  can  see  the  red 
disk  go  down  almost  without  a  flash  of  light  as 
though  its  own  heat  had  consumed  it. 

The  glare  and  heat  of  sunset  colors  are  per- 
haps more  apparent  than  real.  The  same  sun 
at  the  time  it  looks  red  to  us  may  show  the 
yellow  of  noon  and  the  white  of  dawn  to  the 
people  and  the  lands  lying  to  the  west  of  us. 
We  are  looking  from  a  land  of  shadow  toward 
one  that  is  still  in  full  sunlight,  and  the  bright- 
ness of  the  sky-color  is  great  by  contrast.  The 
colors  and  combinations  of  colors  that  we  see 
on  the  western  sky  and  clouds  at  sunset  and 


16 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


twilight  hardly  admit  of  description.  All  hues, 
all  tints  are  possible,  and  nothing  is  of  long 
duration.  The  appearance  is  almost  as  tran- 
sient as  the  aurora,  for  it  is  shifting  in  position, 
shifting  in  light  and  color  continually.  When 
there  are  no  clouds,  the  normal  evening  sky 
shows  a  continuous  spectrum,  and  the  order  of 
colors  begins  with  red  at  the  horizon  and  ex- 
tends in  successive  bands  through  orange,  yel- 
low, green,  and  finally  shades  into  the  blue  of 
the  upper  sky.  These  colors  are  intensified 
or  depressed  by  atmospheric  conditions,  and 
they  are  complicated  by  the  appearance  of 
clouds,  though  the  order  of  their  appearance 
even  with  clouds  is  usually  maintained,  the 
reds  being  the  lowest  down  and  the  succession 
rising  through  the  intermediate  colors  to  blue. 
The  most  splendid  evening  effects  are,  gen- 
erally speaking,  in  the  autumn,  when  with 
Indian  summer  there  is  much  heat  and  dust  in 
the  air.  Scarlets,  carmines,  rubies,  and  burn- 
ing golds  are  then  apparent.  After  several 
days  of  rain  have  left  a  damp,  thick  atmos- 
phere, a  clearing  western  sky  with  fleecy  clouds 
will  often  show  very  brilliant  yellows  in  bands, 
and  in  between  these  bands  small  spaces  of 
malachite  green.  The  winter  and  the  early 


PUEE  AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


17 


spring  sometimes  show  wreaths  and  scarves  of 
yellow  or  red  upon  the  clouds  after  sunset ;  but 
as  a  general  rule  these  are  not  the  seasons  for 
bright  displays. 

The  coming  of  the  dawn  and  the  passing  of 
the  sunset  doubtless  occupy  the  same  length  of 
time,  but  to  us  the  latter  often  seems  of  shorter 
duration.  At  the  equator  there  is  compara- 
tively no  glow  on  the  sky  after  the  sun  disap- 
pears. Almost  immediately  upon  the  vanish- 
ing of  the  disk  from  view  there  is  darkness. 
Along  the  coast  of  Norway  one  may  see  the 
after-glow  upon  the  sky  far  into  the  night ; 
and  farther  up  the  coast  the  sun  itself  may  be 
seen  at  midnight.  The  shape  of  the  globe  and 
the  inclination  of  its  axis  account  for  both  these 
appearances.  In  the  temperate  zones  we  have 
something  between  the  two  extremes.  The 
sun  for  some  time  after  its  disappearance  from 
view  keeps  throwing  light  from  below  the 
horizon  upon  the  upper  sky,  and  thus  produces 
the  effect  we  call  twilight.  It  used  to  be  reck- 
oned that  when  the  sun  had  fallen  eighteen  or 
nineteen  degrees  below  the  horizon  the  twilight 
ceased  entirely;  but  according  to  astronomers 
it  ceases  whenever  a  star  of  the  sixth  magnitude 
can  be  seen  in  the  sky  directly  overhead.  The 


18 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


first  twilight  is,  however,  sometimes  followed 
by  a  second  glow;  and  after  this  has  passed 
there  is  occasionally  another  light  seen  in  the 
western  sky  called  the  zodiacal  light.  This 
usually  forms  itself  in  the  shape  of  a  pyramid, 
with  its  base  toward  the  horizon  and  its  apex 
extending  zenith  ward  along  the  track  the  sun 
has  traversed.  It  is  a  pale  nebulous  light,  like 
that  of  the  star  clusters  called  the  Milky  Way  ; 
it  appears  more  frequently  in  the  tropics  than 
in  the  temperate  zones,  at  dawn  as  well  as  at 
twilight,  and  is  often  referred  to  as  the  "  False 
Dawn"  and  the  "  Wolfs  Tail."  The  cause  of 
its  appearance  has  not  yet  been  satisfactorily 
explained. 

No  sooner  is  the  sun  gone  (at  times  before  it 
is  gone)  than  the  moon  comes  up  beyond  the 
eastern  hills,  at  first  rising  slowly  and  then  sud- 
denly bursting  into  view.  If  the  day  has  been  hot 
and  dry  the  face  of  the  disk  is  red  or  deep  or- 
ange, abnormally  large  in  appearance,  and  often 
bulged  and  misshapen  as  regards  its  circle.  We 
are  looking  at  it  through  that  same  lower  stratum 
of  dense  air  which  has  been  rising  all  day  from 
the  earth,  and  is  still  rising  though  the  sun  has 
set.  It  is  the  dense  air  that  gives  the  abnormal 
size  and  the  ruddy  color.  As  the  orb  rises 


PURE  AND    REFLECTED   LIGHT 


19 


higher  in  the  evening  sky  and  gets  out  of  the 
range  of  this  heavy  air  lying  along  the  earth, 
the  disk  apparently  grows  smaller  and  becomes 
clearer  in  light.  The  red  and  orange  fade  out, 
and  we  see  what  is  called  the  "  yellow  moon." 
It  grows  still  fainter  as  it  rises  toward  the  zen- 
ith and  the  earth's  atmosphere  clears  and  cools ; 
and  when  in  the  morning  hours  it  sinks  into 
the  west,  the  disk  is  whitened  and  apparently 
shrunk  in  size.  There  is  little  color  demonstra- 
tion as  it  nears  the  horizon  again.  It  is  cool 
and  silvery,  seldom  red  or  yellow,  and  slips 
from  view  usually  unnoticed. 

Moonlight  is,  of  course,  the  light  of  the  sun 
reflected  from  the  moon.  It  is  not  reflected 
from  a  bright  surface  like  water  (there  is  no 
water  on  the  moon)  but  from  dull  surfaces  like 
rock  ;  and  as  a  result  the  reflection  is  many  de- 
grees feebler  than  its  cause.  Yet  the  moon  has 
some  surface  gleam  about  it  and  is  hardly  like 
an  illuminated  transparency  hung  in  the  air. 
By  comparison  with  the  sun  it  has  no  sharp 
shafts  and  is  so  feeble  that  when  sun  and  moon 
are  both  above  the  horizon  the  latter  attracts  no 
attention  whatever  ;  but  after  the  sun  has  gone 
down  and  the  moon  rising  in  the  east  mingles  its 
light  with  the  twilight  of  the  west,  it  makes  a 


20 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


decided  impression  on  the  landscape.  The  two 
lights  together  give  us  the  most  charming  il- 
lumination imaginable.  The  expiring  fire  of 
the  one  and  the  soft  glow  of  the  other  mingle 
in  a  strange  amalgam  ;  and  a  lustrous  light 
envelops  the  world  as  tender  and  as  lovely  as 
that  reflected  from  mother-of-pearl.  There  is 
neither  deep  shadow  nor  sharp  color ;  and  around 
the  great  ring  of  the  horizon,  stealing  far  up  the 
sky,  there  is  a  vast  blend  and  mystery  of  color. 
The  molten  golds  and  garnets  of  the  west  as  they 
steal  along  the  horizon  circle  to  the  north  and 
south,  change  into  opalescent  tints  of  yellow, 
rose,  and  amethyst ;  and  the  blue  and  silver  of 
the  east  as  they  spread  out  to  meet  the  flush 
of  the  west,  pass  through  all  the  shades  of  gray, 
mauve,  and  lilac.  For  producing  delicate  tints 
of  color  there  is  no  such  light  as  this  double  il- 
lumination coming  from  the  east  and  the  west. 
Wonderful  in  their  variety,  more  wonderful  in 
their  unity,  these  tints  drape  the  whole  circle  of 
the  horizon  like  a  celestial  tapestry.  Never  for 
a  moment  are  they  fixed  or  permanent.  The 
great  waves  of  light  that  came  up  the  blue  vault 
at  dawn  have  calmed  down  to  gentle  undula- 
tions, but  they  still  heave  and  roll  along  the  ho- 
rizon-walls, and  at  every  heave  some  beautiful 


PURE   AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


21 


combination  of  color  breaks  and   disappears, 
some  equally  beautiful  one  takes  its  place. 

And  when  the  sun  and  its  cloud  coloring  have 
gone,  when  the  moon  is  not  in  our  quarter,  then 
falls  the  night  shadow  upon  the  earth  and 
through  it  the  shining  of  the  stars.  They,  too, 
are  affected  in  appearance  by  the  density  or  the 
clarity  of  the  air  through  which  they  are  seen. 
The  night  sky  hanging  over  Sahara  is  usually 
a  very  dark  purple,  but  the  stars  do  not  shine 
brightly  upon  it,  and  they  have  no  marked  col- 
orings; yet  they  appear  very  near,  as  though 
one  might  reach  them  with  an  arrow.  Where 
the  air  is  more  transparent,  as  in  the  north 
of  America,  the  night  sky  is  deeper,  the  stars 
sparkle  and  throw  out  tiny  shafts  of  light, 
and  they  show  to  the  eye  different  hues  of  em- 
erald, topaz,  amethyst,  ruby ;  but  they  do  not 
appear  to  be  at  all  near  us.  Jewels  shining 
through  a  dusky  veil,  they  have  but  little  light, 
and  that  in  such  small  points  that  the  impres- 
sion upon  the  great  mass  of  shadow  lying  across 
the  earth  is  not  great.  We  are  able  to  see  about 
us  on  a  starry  night,  but  is  it  by  the  light  of 
the  stars  alone  that  we  see  ?  Is  that  light  suf- 
ficient to  illumine  the  world  even  in  a  feeble 
way  ?  At  night  one-half  of  the  globe  is  shut 


22 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


out  from  the  direct  light  of  the  sun,  and  though 
far  above  the  shadow,  above  the  atmospheric 
arch  we  call  the  sky,  the  light  streams  through 
the  realms  of  space,  yet  it  leaves  no  visible  track, 
no  illumination,  no  reflection.  Beyond  our  sky 
it  is  supposed  there  is  no  air,  no  vapor,  no  dust 
to  catch  and  to  reflect  light.  In  space  the  sun's 
rays  travel  direct  with  no  diffusion,  no  halo,  no 
radiation  ;  and  could  we  see  the  sun  itself  it 
would  appear  as  an  intensely  bright  disk  with- 
out shafts.  It  would  seem  then  that,  with  sun- 
light and  moonlight  cut  off,  we  gain  little  or  no 
light  from  the  upper  regions  of  space,  save  that 
which  comes  from  the  stars.  It  is  possible 
that  our  upper  atmosphere  may  be  illumined  by 
reflected  sun  rays  or  moon  rays,  and  that  thus 
the  light  of  the  stars  is  helped  out.  And  it  is 
possible,  too,  that  there  is  something  of  stored- 
up  light  or  electrical  phenomena  to  add  to  the 
night  illumination.  These  accessories  may  aid 
the  light  of  the  stars  somewhat,  but  they  de- 
crease— the  total  illumination  decreases — as  the 
night  wears  on  and  out,  and  the  darkest  hour 
is  just  before  dawn. 

So  much  for  the  direct  and  reflected  lights 
of  a  summer's  day.  It  is  one  day  out  of 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five,  and  has  been  de- 


PURE   AND   REFLECTED   LIGHT 


scribed  only  in  its  general  features.  There  are 
no  two  days  in  the  year  just  alike,  nor  will  you 
ever  find  one  day  paralleled  or  repeated  in  an- 
other day.  There  is  a  warmth  of  coloring  and 
light  in  midsummer  and  autumn,  a  bleaching 
of  hues  in  the  spring,  a  coldness  of  light  in 
winter  ;  but  these  again  are  only  general  char- 
acteristics of  the  seasons,  and  do  not  indicate  the 
infinite  changes  in  each  separate  day.  The  va- 
riety of  combinations  made  by  nature  can  never 
be  tabulated  or  classified.  Night  after  night 
one  may  watch  the  moon  rise — watch  it  riding 
through  clouds,  first  a  dull  disk,  and  then  a 
growing  light  as  it  nears  the  edge  of  a  cloud — 
but  the  same  effect  is  never  repeated ;  never 
the  same  moon,  never  the  same  clouds,  air,  and 
coloring.  The  sun  comes  up,  the  sun  goes 
down  ;  but  each  morning  light  sets  a  different 
glory  upon  the  eastern  sky,  and  each  evening 
light  reveals  new  iris  hues  upon  the  burning 
western  clouds. 

And  so  with  a  different  radiance  for  each 
hour  the  splendor  of  the  world  goes  round, 
night  following  day,  hemispheres  of  shadow 
alternating  with  hemispheres  of  light.  As  the 
earth  turns,  midnight  and  noonday  slip  over  its 
surface.  Eevolving  around  the  sun  in  a  slightly 


24 


NATURE  FOE  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


The  whirl- 
ing world. 


erratic  orbit,  flinging  off  heat  or  cold  as  the  in- 
clination of  its  axis  to  the  ecliptic,  it  follows 
necessarily  that  the  earth  must  be  continually 
changing  in  light  and  color.  There  shall  never 
be  any  monotony  so  long  as  the  sun  lasts  and 
the  world  spins  ;  and  that  light  which  was 
created  on  the  earliest  day  is  to  this  latest  time 
the  most  varied  and  the  most  wonderful  beauty 
of  the  universe. 


CHAPTER  II 
BROKEN   AND  SHADED  LIGHT 

ALL  the  lights  that  come  from  the  sky  and 
reach  the  earth,  whether  from  sun,  moon,  or 
stars,  are  broken  lights  in  the  sense  that  they 
are  somewhat  shattered  by  passing  throngh 
atmosphere.  None  of  them  reaches  us  in  its 
pnrity  ;  yet,  comparatively  speaking,  we  say 
that  sunlight  is  direct  light,  moonlight  is  re- 
flected light,  and  cloud  light  is  broken  light.  A 
cloud  between  the  sun  and  the  earth  is  merely 
the  interposition  of  a  visible  atmosphere  dense 
with  particles  of  moisture,  but  it  has  a  very 
decided  effect  in  subduing  the  intensity  of  light 
and  darkening  the  earth.  The  more  vapor- 
laden  the  cloud  and  the  thicker  through  its 
mass,  the  darker  it  will  appear  and  the  feebler 
will  be  the  light  filtered  through  it.  If  it  is  a 
large  cloud  it  will  appear,  perhaps,  unusually 
dark  to  us,  for  the  reason  that  we  can  see  only 
its  shadowed  base.  On  its  upper  part  or  top 
it  is,  of  course,  shining  white  in  the  sunlight, 
like  the  cumulus  of  a  summer  day  ;  for  a  cloud 
25 


Cloud 
light. 


26 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


will  have  its  light-and-shade  like  any  other 
object,  and  the  dark  massed  nimbus,  which  we 
call  the  rain  cloud,  is  not  very  different  from 
other  clouds,  save  that  its  base  is  deeper  sunk 
in  shadow. 

The  gray,  lowery  day,  so  often  seen  in  spring 
and  winter,  shows  us  cloud  forms  so  closely 
packed  together  that  they  make  a  continuous 
curtain  across  the  sky,  through  which  light 
passes  to  the  earth  in  a  neutral  but  widely  dif- 
fused illumination.  This  is  broken  light  in  its 
most  positive  form.  Dispersed  in  every  ray  by 
moisture  particles,  the  crippled  sunlight  can  do 
no  more  than  throw  a  gray  monotone  over  the 
face  of  nature,  taking  the  cloud  coloring  for  its 
chief  note.  Such  a  day  is  usually  declared 
"dull."  The  sky  and  sun  are  completely  shut 
out,  there  is  no  sharp  flash  of  light,  color,  or 
shadow,  no  mellow  haze  upon  the  earth,  no 
gilding  and  fretting  of  gold  overhead.  The 
cloud  curtain  covers  the  sky  and  draws  down 
below  the  horizon-ring  like  a  cap,  a  film  of  mist 
lies  across  the  meadows,  blue  and  purple  drifts 
of  air  float  high  up  in  the  valleys,  and  along 
the  mountain-sides  and  over  the  craggy  peaks 
hang  gray  fringes  of  rain.  Upon  days  like 
these  the  clouds  troop  on  across  the  sky,  rank 


BROKEN   AND   SHADED   LIGHT 


27 


npon  rank,  one  so  close  upon  the  heels  of  the 
other  that  they  are  scarcely  to  be  distinguished. 
How  often  the  traveller  has  seen  them  in  Paris 
swaying  above  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  and  drift- 
ing down  over  the  Champs  Elysees,  flooding 
the  city  with  torrents  of  rain  !  How  often  he 
has  seen  them  defiling  over  the  plains  of  Bava- 
ria, covering  the  Bohemian  forests,  or  muf- 
fling the  hill-tops  of  New  England  !  There 
is  no  break  in  the  lines,  no  sunlight  streaming 
through.  At  times  a  company  seems  to  lift 
and  lighten  and  the  horizon  appears  to  expand ; 
but  it  is  soon  followed  by  a  thicker  company, 
the  light  darkens,  the  horizon  contracts,  and 
the  rain  waves  through  the  air  like  the  folds  of 
an  enormous  mantle  shaken  out  by  the  wind. 

And  how  dark  the  night  following  such  a 
day !  There  is  no  moon,  and  only  the  sharp- 
pointed  stars  illumine  the  watery  canopy  from 
above.  On  such  a  night  the  wind  seems  to  rise 
as  the  darkness  falls,  the  mountains  fade  into 
vague  black  spots  and  then  blur  out,  the  break- 
ers with  phosphor-white  crests  fall  heavy  and 
booming  on  the  sea-shore,  and  the  forest  moans 
and  vibrates  like  a  vast  ^Eolian  harp.  There  is 
little  beauty  here,  save  in  sound  and  contem- 
plation. Not  even  lightning  throws  a  momen- 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


tary  flash  upon  the  scene.  The  swirl  and  the 
swish  of  the  elements,  especially  on  the  sea  or 
on  the  plains,  the  sublimity  of  the  tempest,  ap- 
peal to  us  perhaps ;  but  our  eyes  are  almost 
useless.  Nothing  so  darkens  the  earth  as  night 
and  rain  clouds  under  a  moonless  sky. 

It  is,  apparently,  a  very  different  light  that 
we  see  when  the  clouds  are  not  above  us,  but 
around  us.  A  mist  or  fog  is  merely  a  cloud 
formed  close  to  the  ground,  and  is  not  different 
from  the  cloud  that  is  about  one  at  times  on  a 
mountain-top,  except  that  the  fog  appears  to 
be  more  luminous  and  to  have  more  color. 
Doubtless  something  of  this  appearance  is  due 
to  the  thinness  of  the  bank.  It  generally  forms 
with  a  clear  sky  overhead,  and  is  sometimes  not 
higher  above  the  earth  than  a  house-top,  though 
it  is  often  a  hundred  or  more  feet  in  thickness. 
When  the  bank  is  shallow  we  are  surrounded  by 
diffused  and  refracted  light,  and  an  upward 
glance  in  the  direction  of  the  sun  shows  us  a 
white  light  seen  as  through  alabaster.  This 
same  light  is  sometimes  seen  in  the  early  morn- 
ing illuminating  the  whole  landscape  when  the 
fog  has  lifted  a  thousand  or  more  feet  above  the 
earth  and  is  spread  out  into  a  thin,  gauze-like 
sheet.  The  thinness  of  the  sheet  prevents  ob- 


BROKEN  AND   SHADED  LIGHT 


29 


scurity  and  facilitates  diffusion,  as  does  aground- 
glass  globe  upon  a  lamp.  The  result  is  a  vapor- 
like  light  of  marvellous  luminosity  and  great 
beauty.  Unfortunately  it  is  not  of  long  duration, 
and  here  in  America  it  is  not  often  seen.  In 
France  along  the  Seine,  in  England  along  the 
southern  coast,  and  in  Japan  it  is  of  common 
occurrence.  The  so-called  "  white  horizon  " 
results  from  a  similar  set  of  circumstances.  The 
vapor-laden  atmosphere  of  the  morning,  seen  in 
mass  as  we  look  toward  the  horizon,  produces 
the  white-light  effect.  Seen  in  the  afternoon 
or  at  sunset,  the  same  horizon  shows  rose,  lilac, 
or  mauve  tints,  because  the  vapor  particles  have 
been  superseded,  or  at  least  alloyed  by  the  dust 
particles,  and  the  heat  is  greater. 

But  to  return  to  the  fog  along  the  ground,  as 
soon  as  it  begins  to  lift  it  becomes  lighter  and 
brighter  until  finally  the  sun  peering  through 
from  above  appears  as  a  silver  or  pale-yellow  disk 
without  radiant  shafts.  The  light  grows  more 
golden  as  the  fog-bank  decreases  in  thickness, 
until  at  last,  the  sun  having  burned  its  way 
through  to  the  earth,  we  see  the  normal  light 
of  day.  The  fog  then  disperses  in  small  patches, 
is  evaporated  and  carried  upward  by  rising  cur- 
rents of  air,  and  in  a  short  time  has  disap- 


Vapor 


White 
horizons. 


Fog  light* 


30 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


peared  entirely.  Of  course  the  deepening  and 
the  thickening  of  the  fog-bank  enfeeble  and 
gray  the  light.  When  combined  with  dust 
and  smoke,  as  in  large  cities,  it  is  sometimes 
dense  enough  to  require  the  lighting  of  street 
lamps  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  How  it  ob- 
scures the  vision  everyone  knows  who  has  been 
in  London  at  such  times,  or  has  crossed  on  the 
New  York  ferry-boats,  with  the  pilots  picking 
their  way  by  the  sound  of  whistles  and  bells. 
In  such  fogs  a  few  feet  are  often  sufficient  to 
efface  objects  entirely. 

In  the  country  a  fog  never  appears  to  be  so 
thick  as  in  the  city,  though  in  low  marsh  places 
it  banks  up  and  obscures  land  and  water 
very  effectually.  Seen  from  a  high  place  look- 
ing down,  the  shore-fog  is  not  unlike  a  cloud 
below  one  in  an  Alpine  valley  ;  and  with  the 
sunlight  beating  upon  it  the  fleecy  spun-silver 
effect  is  just  as  beautiful  on  the  one  as  on  the 
other.  There  is  no  limit  to  the  fantastic  forms 
a  fog  will  assume  when  seen  from  a  height.  At 
times  when  the  dark  tree-tops  protrude  above  it 
the  appearance  is  that  of  a  landscape  buried  in 
snow,  at  other  times  the  meadows  seem  flooded 
with  milk-white  water,  or  suffocated  with  drifts 
and  currents  of  smoke.  The  small  islands  off 


AJNU   SHADED    LIGHT 


31 


the  coast  of  Maine  are  remarkable  for  fog  ef- 
fects, and  in  cold  weather,  when  the  fog  turns 
the  bare  trees  into  traceries  of  frozen  silver,  the 
effect  is  truly  splendid. 

But  close  contact  with  fogs  in  either  city 
streets  or  country  lanes  is  not  a  thing  enjoyed 
by  the  average  person.  People  grumble  and 
cough  and  talk  about  "  disagreeable "  and 
"horrible"  weather,  but  not  one  out  of  a  hun- 
dred gets  his  head  far  enough  out  of  his  coat- 
collar  to  see  the  beautiful  pearl-gray  tints  about 
him.  Broken  and  obscured  as  the  light  is,  it 
still  comes  through  in  minute  reflecting  points. 
There  is  nothing  opaque  about  the  bank.  It  is 
luminous  always ;  and  though  we  think  of  it 
and  speak  of  it  as  gray  and  monotonous  in  color, 
we  have  only  to  contrast  it  with  engine  steam 
to  find  that  it  is  often  full  of  delicate  pinks, 
lilacs,  and  pale  yellows,  especially  when  it  is 
lifting.  These  minor  broken  color-notes  seldom 
attract  our  attention,  and  yet  they  are  perhaps 
as  refined  tones  as  we  shall  find  in  nature's 
gamut,  if  we  except  the  notes  of  the  upper  sky  at 
dawn.  It  is  curious  that  people  do  not  see  them, 
and  still  more  curious  that  they  fail  to  appreciate 
them  when  they  are  pointed  out.  The  average 
person  is  quick  enough  to  remark  the  red  flame 


Color  in 
fog  bank 


32 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


of  sunset,  but  he  seldom  sees  the  dove-colors 
and  steel-blues  that  lie  back  of  him  in  the  east ; 
he  sees  a  scarlet  maple  or  an  orange  stain  upon 
a  hillside  meadow  in  October,  but  he  overlooks 
the  silvery  sheen  of  the  wind-swept  poplar,  or 
the  cloud-like  surface  of  the  Indian  grass ;  he 
is  not  blind  to  Niagara  and  the  Alps,  and  all 
the  "  big  things,"  but  he  has  an  unhappy  way 
of  never  regarding  anything  that  is  not  "  big," 
and  hence  loses  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  life 
which  comes  from  discovering  and  enjoying  the 
beauty  of  the  so-called  commonplace. 

Direct  light  does  not  necessarily  mean  a  per- 
fectly clear  sky,  nor  broken  light  a  completely 
clouded  one.  There  are  days  of  alternate  sun- 
light and  cloud  light ;  and  indeed,  a  blue  sky 
with  drifting  clouds  is  more  frequently  seen 
than  any  other.  The  heavy  cumuli  that  lie 
along  the  horizon  like  distant  mountain -ranges 
with  snowy  summits  are  not  very  noticeable  as 
makers  of  shadow,  nor  are  the  thin  clouds 
stretched  in  strata  across  the  upper  zenith  pro- 
ductive of  anything  but  a  general  veiling  of  the 
light.  It  is  the  thick,  ragged,  or  round  cloud, 
drifting  across  the  sky  in  flocks,  that  makes  the 
sunlight  come  and  go  upon  the  earth.  When 
each  of  these  moving  clouds  is  surrounded  by  a 


BROKEN  AND   SHADED   LIGHT 


33 


field  of  blue  the  shadow  of  the  cloud  is  cast 
upon  the  earth  in  isolated  silhouette.  As  the 
cloud  moves,  the  shadow  moves  too,  and  we  have 
that  charming  effect  called  the  flying  shadow. 
If  there  is  a  stiff  wind  blowing  and  the  clouds 
are  closely  packed  together  with  only  loopholes 
of  blue  here  and  there,  or  if  the  clouds  are  long 
rolls  of  the  nimbus  with  occasionally  breaks  in 
the  line  through  which  the  sunlight  falls,  we 
then  see  that  other  charming  effect  called  the 
sun-burst. 

The  sun-burst  is  often  seen  in  summer 
weather,  especially  if  the  day  is  hot,  and  the  air 
is  heavy  with  dust  and  moisture.  Under  such 
conditions  the  bright  beam  thrust  through  a 
cloud  opening  makes  a  Jacob's  ladder  of  light 
from  heaven  to  earth.  The  light  falls  in  a  shaft 
very  much  as  the  pinion  of  the  Egyptian  dawn 
rises  toward  the  zenith,  except  that  it  is  usually 
frailer  and  more  golden  in  hue.  And  it  always 
falls  through  the  shadow  cast  by  clouds  just  as  a 
beam  of  sunlight  flashes  into  a  darkened  room 
and  is  seen  because  it  is  surrounded  by  dark- 
ness. When  a  cloud  passes  across  the  face  of 
the  sun  its  edges  may  turn  to  molten  silver  and 
its  thicker  portions  glow  with  light,  yet  the 
beam  does  not  get  through  and  the  falling  shaft 


34 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


is  not  seen  ;  but  just  as  soon  as  a  flash  from  the 
sun  breaks  through  a  torn  portion  of  the 
cloud,  the  shaft  falls  to  earth  and  is  apparent 
from  its  shadowy  envelope.  It  appears  to  fall 
earthward  in  a  straight  line,  but,  like  all  sun- 
beams, it  in  reality  describes  a  curve  through 
the  lower  atmosphere,  especially  if  the  sun  is 
low  in  the  heavens.  The  trajectory  is  not 
point-blank,  but  falls  short  like  a  spent  rifle 
ball.  Yet  this  is  not  seen  by  the  eye  and  is 
known  only  to  scientific  calculation.  To  all 
appearances  the  shaft  falls  straight  and  remains 
fixed.  It  is  the  shadow  of  the  cloud  that  glides 
across  the  meadows,  up  the  valleys,  and  over  the 
mountains  ;  the  sun-shaft  does  not  shift  except 
where  it  falls  more  obliquely  as  the  earth  rotates 
from  west  to  east,  or  its  direction  is  changed 
by  cloud  breaks. 

The  sun-burst  is  perhaps  seen  more  frequently 
during  showery  weather  or  with  thunder-storms 
than  at  other  times,  and  it  is  usually  more  lumi- 
nous after  than  before  a  rainfall.  As  the  first- 
comers  of  the  storm-clouds  begin  to  cover  the 
sun,  the  shaft  is  often  seen  in  a  yellow  beam 
falling  diagonally  toward  the  earth.  When  the 
shower  is  passing  and  the  sunlight  begins  to 
show  again,  the  shaft  reappears  frequently  in 


BROKEN   AND  SHADED   LIGHT 


35 


the  form  of  a  white  beam,  stronger  than  the 
yellow  one,  because  falling  through  denser 
moisture.  There  may  be  many  of  these  shafts, 
and  they  may  radiate  in  all  directions  from  the 
sun,  as  one  often  sees  at  evening,  when  the  west 
is  barred  or  streaked  with  clouds. .  The  reach- 
ing down  of  sun-shafts  toward  the  earth,  with 
or  without  a  shower,  is  commonly  referred  to  as 
the  sun  "  drawing  water."  It  is  really  the  sun 
illuminating  the  dust  or  moisture  in  the  air, 
just  as  the  rainbow,  which  spans  the  opposite 
heavens  from  the  sun,  is  but  the  sun's  rays  re- 
flected and  refracted  in  prismatic  colors  from 
drops  of  rain. 

For  variety  in  the  display  of  sun-bursts  I 
know  of  no  country  more  interesting  than  Scot- 
land. In  stormy  weather  at  sunset  the  light 
falling  through  chinks  of  the  clouds  will  often 
make  a  half- wheel  or  fan-shaped  alternation  of 
light  and  shadow  most  brilliant  in  its  flashes 
of  gray  and  silver.  And  again,  I  have  never 
seen  such  effects  of  sun-bursts  and  flying 
shadows  together  as  in  the  Grampians,  particu- 
larly those  more  barren  portions  of  the  hills 
where  the  heather  is  absent  and  only  a  yellow- 
green  of  grass  and  a  slate-gray  of  stone  are  seen 
as  background.  Over  the  slopes  and  down  the 


36 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN  SAKE 


valleys  the  lights  and  shadows  seem  to  wave  in 
bands,  like  the  streamers  of  the  Northern 
Lights  across  the  sky.  The  shaking  shimmer- 
ing effect  and  the  alternate  colorings  of  yellow, 
green,  and  gray,  chasing  each  other  across  hill 
and  dale,  are  most  extraordinary  in  appearance. 
After  watching  them  for  a  few  moments,  it  is 
quite  impossible  for  the  eye  to  tell  whether  the 
light,  the  shadow,  or  the  color  is  flying.  At 
other  times,  when  the  clouds  are  rounder  and 
larger,  their  shadows  slip  along  majestically 
from  crag  to  lake,  from  lake  to  crag  again,  glid- 
ing noiselessly  and  without  obstruction  up  and 
down  and  over  the  Scottish  moors  like  dark  peer- 
ing spirits  seeking  a  hiding-place  and  never 
finding  it.  They  roam  restlessly  on  and  on,  until 
at  last  they  spread  out  upon  the  flat  North  Sea 
and  their  dark  forms,  changed  to  lilac  in  hue, 
go  slipping  over  the  waters  to  the  east,  still  rest- 
less, still  noiseless,  still  flying.  In  other  lands 
the  shadow  is  interesting  to  watch  as  it  glides 
across  the  meadows  covered  with  buttercups 
and  daisies,  and  climbs  the  wooded  mountains 
to  vanish  over  the  ridge  ;  but  the  bare  hills  and 
moors  of  Scotland  always  seem  the  best  play- 
grounds for  the  sun-burst  and  the  flying  shadow. 
Light  beams  and  flying  shadows  are  some- 


BROKEN   AND   SHADED   LIGHT 


37 


times  seen  under  moonlight,  but  they  are  not 
so  marked  as  those  produced  by  the  sun,  be- 
cause of  their  want  of  definition.  The  moon- 
burst  attracts  little  attention  on  the  land  ;  and 
on  the  sea,  where  there  is  reflection  from  a  ruf- 
fled surface,  the  spot  made  by  falling  light  is 
apparent  enough,  but  seldom  the  shaft  itself. 
The  light  is  oftenest  seen  far  out  upon  the 
horizon,  and  is  merely  a  flicker  and  a  sparkle 
upon  the  water.  As  for  the  flying  shadows  of 
clouds  at  night,  they  are  dark  purple  in  tone 
and  are  sometimes  weird  in  shape,  but  unless 
the  night  is  very  bright,  they  are  not  usually 
noticed. 

Shaded  light  is  somewhat  different  from 
broken  or  clouded  light.  It  is  not  produced 
by  shattered  parts  of  direct  rays  that  steal 
through  vapors  and  cloud- veils,  but  by  widely 
diffused  or  reflected  rays.  The  direct  beams 
are  usually  cut  off  by  an  opaque  substance,  and 
the  light  in  the  shadow  is  received  from  the  re- 
flecting sky,  the  air,  or  some  other  illuminating 
or  light-diffusing  body  at  the  sides.  The  earth 
as  a  globe  is  a  good  illustration  of  this.  It  is 
light  on  one  side,  and  its  opposite  side  would  be 
absolutely  black  were  it  not  for  such  reflecting 
bodies  as  the  moon,  the  planets,  and  possibly 


38 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN  SAKE 


the  illuminated  upper  atmosphere — counting 
oat  for  the  present  the  faint  if  direct  light  of 
the  stars.  Were  it  possible  for  a  tree  or  a 
house  to  be  in  the  far  upper  space  where  there 
is  no  air,  its  sunlit  side  would  be  intensely 
brilliant  and  its  shaded  side  coal-black  ;  but  on 
the  earth  the  shadow  of  a  tree  or  house  is  illu- 
minated by  the  atmosphere  surrounding  it,  and 
by  the  side  reflections  thrown  upon  it.  It  is 
the  diffused  light,  produced  by  atmosphere  or 
otherwise,  that  makes  a  shadow  luminous,  and 
it  is  the  sharp,  direct  light  that  makes  a  shadow 
dark.  One  may  state  a  general  rule  in  these 
terms  :  The  greater  the  diffusion  of  light,  the 
greater  the  expansion  and  illumination  of  shad- 
ows ;  the  sharper  and  more  direct  the  light,  the 
more  contracted  and  the  darker  the  shadows. 

We  can  see  this  well  exemplified  almost  any 
night  by  studying  the  light  of  the  electric  arc- 
lamp.  It  is  the  strongest  and  the  most  direct 
artificial  light  we  possess  ;  moreover,  it  is  a 
white  light,  with  much  of  blue  and  violet  in 
it,  and  the  shadows  produced  by  it  are  very 
dark  and  clear-cut.  Seen  at  night,  these 
shadows  cast  by  the  bare  limbs  of  a  tree  upon 
pavement  or  upon  snow  are  precisely  edged, 
have  little  penumbra,  and  are  almost  inky  in 


BROKEN   AND   SHADED   LIGHT 


39 


their  blackness.  Gas-light  will  cast  no  such 
shadows,  nor  will  the  sun,  nor  will  the  arc- 
light  itself  when  muffled  by  a  white  globe. 
Anything  like  thick  atmosphere,  a  cloud,  or  a 
milk-white  glass  that  will  spread  the  light  over 
great  space  will  lighten  and  expand  the  shadows 
at  once.  Hence  it  is  that  on  cold,  clear  days, 
when  there  is  little  dust  or  vapor  in  the  air  to 
diffuse  light,  the  shadows  are  darker,  sharper, 
and  less  noticeable  in  their  coloring  than  at  any 
other  time,  while  the  hot  days,  with  their  thick 
atmospheres,  produce  opposite  results. 

In  America  the  heated  days  of  early  autumn, 
so  remarkable  for  their  hazy  envelope  of  air 
and  bright  coloring,  produce  odd  changes  in 
the  illumination  of  almost  everything  in  land- 
scape. The  shadows  become  much  frailer  in 
body,  more  transparent  in  light,  with  very  pro- 
nounced hues,  especially  in  the  tones  of  lilac 
and  blue.  During  the  three  heated  days  of 
September,  in  1895,  I  had  the  opportunity  of 
studying  color  effects,  in  both  light  and  shade, 
in  the  woods  and  fields  near  Princeton,  New 
Jersey — one  of  the  most  brilliant  spots  in  au- 
tumn I  have  ever  known.  The  studies  were 
interesting,  but  the  material  was  so  bewilder- 
ing in  variety  that  I  found  great  difficulty  in 


40 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


locating  causes  and  arriving  at  conclusions. 
The  trees,  the  bushes,  the  field  grasses  were 
already  tinged  with  autumn  hues,  and  these 
hues,  enhanced  by  the  heat,  made  the  land- 
scape appear  crude  and  violent  in  its  coloring. 
No  imaginable  tint  was  absent  from  the  scene, 
and  the  greens,  reds,  yellows,  and  oranges  were 
flaring  in  their  intensities.  But  what  impressed 
me  more  than  anything  else  was  the  iridescent 
coloring  of  the  atmosphere,  the  wavering  of 
the  heated  air,  the  faintness  of  the  shadows 
and  their  pronounced  body  of  color.  The  pre- 
vailing tints  in  the  shadows  were  lilac,  violet, 
and  rose.  There  were  few  shadows  that  were 
colorless,  and  few,  if  any,  wherein  the  local 
color  of  the  ground  or  object  they  fell  upon  was 
not  twisted  or  distorted  somewhat  by  a  reflected 
or  a  complementary  color. 

It  is  not  a  new  theory  of  science  that  every 
color  casts  its  complementary  hue  in  shadow. 
The  practical  working  of  it  may  be  frequently 
observed  in  nature.  A  sheet  of  white  paper 
catching  the  light  from  a  red  sunset  will  receive 
a  green  shadow  from  an  object  interposed  be- 
tween the  paper  and  the  sun.  The  same  red 
light  of  sunset  falling  upon  snow  will  some- 
times produce  green  in  the  shadows  of  trees 


BBOKEN   AND   SHADED   LIGHT  41 


and  bushes.  Dr.  Weir  Mitchell  has  noted 
yachts  at  sea  sailing  in  the  track  of  a  fiery  red 
sun  with  the  shadowed  white  sails  showing  "  a 
vivid  green;"*  and  I  have  seen  more  than 
once  the  white  sails  of  yachts  crossing  a  yellow 
sunset  when  the  change  to  blue  in  the  sails  was 
strongly  marked — blue  being  the  complement- 
ary color  of  yellow  as  green  is  of  red.  Un- 
doubtedly the  yellow  sky  at  sunset  is  measur- 
ably responsible  for  the  blues  and  purples  of 
the  mountains  below  it,  and  the  more  intense 
the  yellow  the  stronger  the  blue-purple.  If  the 
sunset  shows  greenish-yellow,  the  mountain 
shadows  will  be  violet ;  if  orange,  the  shadows 
will  be  cyan-blue  ;  and  so  on  throughout  the 
gamut  each  color  will  disclose  its  opposite  in 
shadow. 

This  is  scientific  theory,  and  it  has  been  de- 
monstrated and  proved  true  of  nature  when 
all  the  conditions  are  just  right.  The  only 
trouble  is  the  conditions  in  nature  are  seldom 
just  right.  The  complementary  coloring  in 
the  shadow  is  apparent  only  on  certain  days, 
and  under  certain  lights,  atmospheres,  and 
temperatures.  It  is  an  error  to  suppose  that  a 
color  is  always  casting  its  complementary  hue 
*  Doctor  and  Patient,  page  176. 


42 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


in  shadow  or,  at  least,  an  error  to  suppose 
that  it  is  always  apparent  to  ns.  There  are  in- 
fluences, too,  such  as  the  local  color  of  the 
ground  and  the  sky  reflection,  that  may  neutral- 
ize or  utterly  destroy  the  complementary  hue.  It 
might  be  thought  that  a  yellow  sun  at  midday 
would  produce  blue  shadows  under  the  green 
maple  on  the  lawn,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  it 
does  not.  The  color  of  the  shadow,  whatever 
it  may  be,  is  absorbed  and  lost  in  the  green  of 
the  lawn  upon  which  it  falls.  The  same  tree 
shadow  falling  on  pale-gray  clay,  or  across  a 
sandy  road,  will  show  blue  or  lilac  at  once ; 
but  I  do  not  think  this  is  owing  necessarily  to 
the  presence  of  the  complementary  hue.  It  is 
more  likely  caused  by  sky  reflection,  helped 
out,  perhaps,  by  atmospheric  reflections  from 
the  sides. 

The  blue  shadows  upon  snow,  so  common 
in  winter,  are  never  seen  except  under  a  blue 
sky ;  and  the  bluer  the  sky  the  more  apparent 
the  blue  in  the  shadow.  They  are  produced 
by  sky  reflection,  and  the  sky  coloring  is  faintly 
apparent  on  the  snow  in  full  sunlight,  but  more 
obvious,  of  course,  in  the  shadow.  These  blue 
shadows  are  stronger  at  sunrise  and  at  sunset 
than  at  any  other  time.  Under  a  clouded 


BKOKEN   AND   SHADED   LIGHT 


43 


sky  they  disappear  entirely,  and  only  a  gray 
effect  is  apparent.  Just  before  dusk,  when 
sometimes  the  clouds  become  empurpled,  the 
whole  body  of  snow  will  take  on  a  purple  re- 
flection. The  same  or  a  similar  effect  is  no- 
ticeable in  the  sand  dunes  along  the  sea-shore, 
though  sand  is  perhaps  not  so  good  a  reflector 
as  snow.  I  should  account  for  the  lilac  shadow 
on  the  clay  or  broken-stone  road  in  the  same 
way.  It  is  a  mingling  of  local  color  with  sky 
reflection  and  side  lights  rather  than  comple- 
mentary hue.  A  rough  surface  like  a  green 
lawn  or  a  meadow  will  not  show  a  colored 
shadow  at  any  time  or  under  any  conditions,  so 
far  as  my  observation  goes ;  and  I  believe  the 
reason  for  it  is  that  it  has  not  a  favorable  sur- 
face for  reflection. 

If  colors  were  always  pure,  and  if  side  lights, 
atmospheres,  and  sky  reflections  could  be  elim- 
inated, we  should  undoubtedly  see  the  scientific 
theory  of  complementary  colors  always  demon- 
strated in  nature  ;  but  the  problem  is  compli- 
cated, and  all  talk  about  ' 'pure  colors  "  is  mis- 
leading. Nothing  is  pure  ;  everything  is  mixed 
and  alloyed.  The  neutralizing  effect  of  side 
lights,  complementary  and  reflected  hues,  and 
local  grounds,  puts  scientific  calculation  out 


44 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


of  countenance.  A  pure  color  in  nature  is 
always  more  or  less  bleached,  grayed,  silvered, 
or  gilded — changed  at  least  from  its  original 
estate  —  by  these  conditions.  "What  might  be 
the  green  of  a  maple-tree  lighted  by  sunlight 
alone  is  one  thing  ;  what  it  is  lighted  by  sun- 
light, sky-light,  and  reflected  light  from  the 
earth,  not  to  mention  atmospheric  influence, 
is  quite  another  thing.  When  all  the  factors  are 
considered,  we  have  anything  but  a  pure  green 
in  the  tree.  It  is,  doubtless,  a  mingling  of  many 
hues  that  favors  the  mauve,  the  rose,  and  the 
lilac  shadows.  But  then,  again,  they  seldom 
appear  unless  the  day  is  hot  and  the  air  thick, 
which  leads  one  to  think  that  atmospheric  re- 
flection plays  some  part  in  their  production. 
The  cause  can  be  conjectured  only,  but  there  is 
no  doubt  about  the  effect.  The  colored  shadow 
is  a  reality,  though  its  recent  discovery  finds 
people  still  somewhat  sceptical  about  it. 

We  have  seen  that  clear  light  is  favorable  to 
the  sharp-cut  shadow,  and  that  when  the  light 
is  more  widely  diffused  by  atmosphere,  or  in- 
creased by  reflection,  the  shadow  begins  to 
lighten,  to  become  vague  and  soft  on  the  edges, 
and  to  be  enveloped  by  a  penumbra.  When  the 
light  is  still  more  widely  diffused  and  broken 


BROKEN   AND   SHADED   LIGHT 


45 


by  coming  through  clouds,  it  is  commonly  sup- 
posed that  the  shadow  disappears  entirely.  We 
think  of  a  cloudy  day  as  a  shadowless  day,  and 
practically  it  is  so.  The  outlines  of  the  shadow 
are  lost,  and  yet  the  shadow  itself  is  there,  if  we 
will  but  look  for  it.  The  green  maple  on  the 
lawn  has  its  breaks  of  light  and  dark  seen  in 
the  foliage,  and  its  form  is  cast  in  shadow  on 
the  ground,  but  the  latter  is  very  faint.  It  is 
only  by  the  generally  darkened  tone  that  we  can 
detect  the  shadow  on  such  a  day,  and  even  then 
there  is  little  distinction  in  color  between  it  and 
its  surroundings.  Sometimes  at  a  distance  the 
shadow  will  appear  bluish,  but  that  effect  is 
atmospheric  rather  than  reflective.  Sometimes, 
too,  odd  colors  will  creep  into  the  shadows  when 
the  sky  overhead  is  clouded  and  there  are  spots 
or  breaks  of  light  along  the  horizon  ;  but  when 
the  whole  sky  is  under  a  veil  of  cloud,  the  color 
of  the  shadow  is  practically  neutralized,  and 
takes  its  hue  from  the  ground  upon  which  it  is 
cast. 

The  conditions  of  shadow  production  under 
moonlight  are  similar  to  those  under  sunlight, 
except  that  the  degree  of  both  light  and  shade 
is  largely  reduced.  That  the  direct  moonlight 
produces  color  wherever  it  strikes  the  garment- 


46 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


Star 
thadowt. 


ing  of  nature  is  undoubtedly  true,  but  it  is  al- 
ways a  subdued  dull  color.  And  the  shadows, 
though  they  are  luminous  and  not  black  opaque 
patches,  have  only  dull  shades  of  blue,  purple, 
and  gray.  There  is  a  modern  tendency  to  see 
too  much  color  in  moonlight— in  fact,  to  see 
more  than  really  exists.  The  old  idea  of  the 
whiteness  of  its  light  and  the  blackness  of  its 
shadows  has  passed  away,  but  the  new  idea  has 
some  extravagance  about  it.  Colors  of  every 
kind  under  the  moon  are  far  removed  from  the 
feeblest  of  daylight  tintings. 

Feebler  still  than  the  moonlight  is  the  light 
that  comes  from  the  stars.  The  planet  Venus 
and  many  of  the  fixed  stars  are  bright  enough 
to  throw  at  times  a  long  reflecting  track  upon 
ruffled  water,  but  the  colors  produced  by  them 
upon  landscape  are  blurred  into  smudges  of 
dark  purple  and  blue,  and  the  hues  of  the 
shadows  are  too  vague  to  be  seen. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  BLUE  SKY 

THE  two  great  expanses,  the  blue  ocean  at 
our  feet  and  the  blue  sky  over  our  heads,  are 
both  impressive  in  vastness — the  ocean  more 
than  the  sky,  possibly  because  we  are  familiar 
with  its  extent  and  have  felt  its  power.  We 
know,  in  a  vague  way,  that  the  sky  is  even 
vaster  than  the  sea,  that  it  is  the  open  field 
leading  into  interminable  space  ;  but  its  very 
obvious  coloring,  its  apparent  arch  on  all  sides 
springing  upward  and  inward  from  the  horizon, 
its  fixity,  give  us  something  of  a  false  impres- 
sion. We  are  inclined  to  regard  it  as  a  great 
blue  dome  or  roof,  a  something  tangible  that 
is  supported  by  the  horizon-rim,  a  concave  sur- 
face looked  at  instead  of  a  vast  transparency 
looked  through. 

And  there  is  some  excuse  for  our  regarding 

the  blue  sky  as  an  actual  surface.     It  is  the 

outer  envelope  of  the  globe,  and  is  made  up  of  the 

blue  rays  of  the  sun  reflected  from  atmospheric 

47 


Impret- 

tiontofthe 

iky. 


48 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


particles.  These  reflecting  particles  seen  in 
mass  apparently  make  a  roof  above  us  which 
*ooks  to  be  ten  or  fifteen  miles  in  height.  It  is 
merely  an  appearance,  however,  and  our  not  too 
reliable  eyes  deceive  us.  It  is  known  that  the 
atmosphere  is  from  two  hundred  to  five  hun- 
dred miles  in  thickness,  perhaps  more,  and 
there  is  no  demarcation  line  where  the  blue  be- 
gins or  ends.  Nor  is  there  any  point  in  this 
blue  where  cloudiness,  haziness,  or  opacity  shows. 
There  is  not  a  blur  or  film  upon  it,  save  where 
it  is  influenced  by  earthly  vapors  and  dust.  The 
sky  itself  is  everywhere  transparent,  else  we 
should  not  receive  light  through  it  or  see  the 
sun,  moon,  and  stars  shining  beyond  it. 

The  recognition  of  sky  distances  is  not  easily 
made  by  the  eye.  A  glance  upward  may  tell  us 
of  five  or  fifty  miles,  as  our  imagination  rather 
than  our  focus  is  adjusted.  Looking  out  and 
over  a  tract  of  earth,  we  conceive  distance 
by  perspective  lines,  by  objects  decreasing  in 
size,  by  the  diminution  of  color,  and  the  in- 
creased thickness  of  atmosphere.  They  are  all 
optical  guide-posts  by  which  we  can  reckon  with 
depth  and  width.  But  no  such  conditions  exist 
in  looking  skyward.  It  is  true  we  are  looking 
through  thick  air  to  thin  air,  and  beyond  that 


THE  BLUE   SKY 


into  black  space,  but  the  color  gradations  are  so 
subtle  that  we  do  not  perceive  the  changes  from 
one  to  another.  Clouds  help  us  somewhat  in 
increasing  the  feeling  of  depth,  for  they  are 
perspective  points  five  or  six  miles  on  the  way 
at  least.  Sometimes  a  pillar  of  cumulus  will 
rise  in  the  air  thirty  thousand  feet  from  base  to 
top,  and  tracing  this  upward  the  eye  may  see 
far  above  it  the  drift  clouds  of  the  stratus,  and 
still  higher,  like  specks  upon  the  blue,  the  fine- 
spun fibres  of  the  cirrus.  This  will  give  some 
idea  of  distance,  though  it  is  not  entirely  satis- 
factory. The  view  from  Alpine  peaks,  where 
we  are  already  twelve  thousand  feet  up,  and  see 
still  far  above  us  against  a  violet  sky  the  white 
spirals  of  the  ice  clouds,  is  not  more  satisfactory, 
save  that  in  the  thinner  and  clearer  air  the  feel- 
ing of  space  is  greater,  and  the  sky  becomes 
more  of  a  blue  wilderness  than  a  domed  roof. 

We  comprehend  the  breadth  and  reach  of  the 
sky  perhaps  as  little  as  its  depth.  Our  horizon 
is  an  apparent  circle  as  our  zenith  is  an  imagin- 
ary point.  The  circle  is  twenty,  fifty,  or  from 
high  ground  perhaps  seventy  miles  in  diameter, 
but  we  always  see  its  outside  limit — the  com- 
plete circle — no  matter  how  vast  the  view.  No- 
where is  the  eye  so  hemmed  in,  nowhere  does 


60 


NATURE  FOR  ITS  OWN  SAKE 


the  horizon-ring  appear  so  small,  as  upon  the 
open  sea.  The  ship  upon  which  we  stand  is  the 
centre  of  a  watery  field,  the  mainmast  points 
overhead  to  the  centre  of  the  blue  firmament,  and 
all  around  spreads  the  deep  azure  glow.  Judging 
from  vision  alone  the  world  appears  very  small. 
The  uttermost  rim  is  just  beyond  us.  The  ex- 
panse of  the  sea  and  the  reach  of  the  atmos- 
phere about  the  whole  globe  are  practically  un- 
felt.  Even  the  height  overhead  seems  greater 
than  the  sweep  before  and  after  us.  The  limi- 
tation becomes  still  more  limited  when  the  va- 
pors lying  along  the  surface  of  the  sea  thicken 
the  air  and  obscure  the  sight.  We  cannot  as  a 
general  rule  under  favorable  conditions  see  more 
than  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  across  sea  water, 
and  even  in  calm  weather  the  horizon  is  often 
clouded  by  vapor  banks  that  lie  along  it  like  a 
row  of  faintly  seen  hills.  All  this  helps  the  illu- 
sion of  being  circled  and  shut  in  by  the  horizon. 
Then  again  the  sense  of  distance  by  perspective 
lines  is  practically  annihilated.  Occasionally 
the  skeleton  masts  and.  black  trailing  smoke  of 
an  ocean  steamer,  or  the  tower-like  looking 
sails  of  a  square  rigged  ship  appear,  and  act  as 
catch-points ;  but  these  are  slight,  and  as  for 
aerial  distance  we  recognize  it  only  by  obscurity 


THE   BLUE   SKY 


51 


of  coloring,  which  at  sea  dulls  the  vision  in- 
stead of  clearing  it. 

It  is  on  the  land,  and  from  the  mountain-top, 
that  we  gain  the  best  idea  of  the  round  reach 
of  the  sky.  From  such  an  elevation  we  not 
only  see  hills  and  valleys  stretching  away  and 
down  the  sweeping  world-circle,  but  if  the  sky 
be  spattered  with  the  white  cirro-cumulus 
clouds,  driving  along  in  flocks  before  the  wind, 
these,  too,  will  seem  to  slope  outward  and  down- 
ward like  the  earth.  The  result  is  that  the  im- 
pression of  expanse  in  sky  and  earth  is  prodig- 
iously enhanced.  The  view  is  awe-inspiring  ; 
and  it  is  not  necessarily  so  because  it  belittles 
the  objects  directly  below  us,  but  because  it 
gives  us  a  larger  idea  of  distance,  space,  and 
sweep.  The  world  seems  a  greater  globe,  the 
sky  becomes  enormous,  and  the  imagination 
rises  to  meet  the  new  presentation. 

There  is  no  feature  of  the  earth  that  can  be 
regarded  as  more  fixed,  more  permanent,  than 
the  blue  sky  overhead.  And  yet  it  seems  as 
though  a  strong  wind  might  blow  it  away. 
Winds,  however,  have  small  effect  upon  it. 
Clouds  and  storms  pass  across  it,  altering  and 
obscuring  it  to  our  eyes,  but  beyond  the  local 
disturbance  we  know  the  sky  is  as  serene  and 


NATURE   FOE  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


unchanged  as  ever.  It  never  seems  to  move, 
it  never  seems  to  shift ;  and  yet  again,  it  is 
far  from  being  an  unvarying  appearance.  Sir 
Isaac  Newton  discovered  years  ago,  from  the 
twinkling  of  the  stars  and  the  shaking  of  shad- 
ows cast  by  high  towers,  that  "the  air  is  in  a 
perpetual  tremor/'  Down  close  to  the  ground 
on  a  hot  day  we  can  see,  in  little,  this  tremor  of 
the  air  as  the  heat  currents  rise  from  the  earth  ; 
and  the  mixture  and  intermixture  of  hot  and  cold 
currents  in  the  upper  air,  the  blowing  of  winds, 
and  the  drift  of  clouds  must  shake  and  disturb 
the  lower  layers  of  the  blue,  though  this  dis- 
turbance is  not  often  noticed  by  us.  At  times 
I  have  seen,  or  fancied  I  have  seen,  in  studying 
the  clear  sky,  what  might  be  called  waves  mov- 
ing across  it.  The  motion  did  not  seem  to  be 
that  of  ringed  waves,  such  as  one  sees  when  a 
stone  is  thrown  into  a  pond,  but  of  deep  undu- 
lations of  varying  blue  succeeding  each  other 
slowly  like  the  heave  and  roll  of  a  glassy  sea. 
Only  on  very  hot  days  has  this  effect  been  ap- 
parent ;  and  I  would  not  be  certain  that  it  is  an 
actual  fact,  for  the  eye  after  long  gazing  at 
light  and  color  is  liable  to  become  confused  and 
see  falsely.  Still,  I  have  seen  the  appearance  a 
number  of  times,  and  I  believe  it  to  be  reality 


THE  BLUE  SKY 


53 


rather  than  illusion.  What  causes  it  I  cannot 
say,  but  it  would  seem  to  belong  to  some  shak- 
ing of  the  lower  atmosphere,  for  I  have  never 
seen  it  from  high  mountains. 

The  lower  atmosphere  is,  indeed,  responsible 
for  most  of  the  volatile  capricious  appearances 
of  the  sky.  From  mountain-tops  the  sky  is 
not  so  changeable,  the  stars  twinkle  less,  show- 
ing that  the  atmosphere  is  quieter,  and  the  face 
of  the  blue  more  uniform  and  serene.  It  lies 
there  calm  as  at  creation's  dawn,  lighted  as  was 
the  old  Mosaic  firmament,  and  studded  with 
the  same  jewel-like  stars.  It  seems  above  and 
beyond  all  local  and  temporary  disturbances. 
Winds  mark  it  not,  storms  are  far  beneath  it, 
heat,  dust,  and  moisture  effect  it  but  slightly. 
It  pales  and  lightens  under  the  sun,  deepens 
under  the  moon,  and  darkens  under  the  stars, 
but  in  other  respects  it  shifts  not.  An  enor- 
mous sweep  of  violet-blue,  it  rests,  a  type  and  a 
symbol  of  unchanging  serenity. 

And  oh,  the  mighty  silence  of  the  upper  sky ! 
What  a  contrast  it  is  to  the  noisy,  wind-swept 
earth  and  the  restless  ocean  !  Infinite  realms 
of  violet-blue  sweeping  outward  and  upward, 
yet  from  them  comes  only  the  Great  Silence — 
the  hush  that  tells  of  limitless  space.  No 


54 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


shock,  no  jar,  no  clash  ;  there  are  no  hidden 
spots  of  earth  so  silent  as  the  depths  where  the 
stars  lie  buried. 

This  perpetual  violet-blue  glow,  unmarred 
and  unspotted  by  high  light  or  shadow  or  vary- 
ing tint,  save  such  as  it  receives  from  the  sun, 
might  be  thought  monotonous,  did  we  always 
have  it  before  us.  But  humanity  does  not  make 
its  abiding-place  on  mountain-tops.  It  prefers 
the  valleys,  and  there  the  vapors  and  earth 
mists  and  dust  particles  produce  a  different- 
looking  sky  from  that  which  is  seen  from  the 
height  of  Mt.  Blanc.  It  is  fortunate  that  it 
is  so ;  yet,  even  in  the  valleys,  people  some- 
times complain  (it  is  said  that  they  do  in  South- 
ern California)  of  "  the  monotony  of  blue  sky." 
In  reality  the  "  monotony"  is  not  in  the  sky, 
but  in  the  eyes  that  look  at  it.  Seen  through 
the  lower  strata  of  atmosphere,  it  is  never  the 
same  for  any  length  of  time.  Its  form  is  con- 
tinually changed  by  clouds  and  cloud-flocks,  new 
colors  are  being  woven  backward,  forward,  and 
across  it,  by  shifting  masses  of  atmosphere,  its 
light  is  waxing  and  waning  with  the  motion  of 
the  earth.  There  is  a  continuous  weave  and 
ravel  of  delicate-hued  textures,  and  from  dawn 
to  dusk  there  is  not  a  moment's  pause.  Sun 


THE   BLUE   SKY 


55 


flame  shot  through,  earth  reflection  shot  back, 
cloud  light  scattered  between,  all  make  their 
momentary  impression ;  and  even  at  night, 
though  the  splendor  is  diminished,  it  is  not 
extinguished.  The  moon  lends  a  pallor  to  the 
blue,  the  Milky  Way  stretches  its  nebulous 
scarf  across  it,  the  Belt  of  Orion  blazes  out 
from  it,  the  planets  gleam  on  its  dark  ground, 
and  through  the  long  dusk  of  night  the  shift- 
ing splendor  falls,  the  eternal  round  of  beauty 
moves  on. 

And  by  day  or  by  night,  seen  from  mountains 
or  from  valleys,  what  infinite  tenderness  in  the 
blue  !  Was  ever  depth  and  transparency  of 
color  so  beautifully  revealed,  and  by  such  subtle, 
elusive  means  ?  Drifts  upon  drifts  of  air  super- 
imposed one  upon  another,  rings  upon  rings 
of  illuminated  atmosphere,  rising  higher  and 
higher,  and  all  of  them  deepening  the  tone,  but 
never  clouding  its  transparency.  How  far  we 
seem  to  see  into  that  blue,  but  there  is  no  place 
where  the  eye  reaches  a  background — no  place 
where  a  basic  color  appears.  It  is  always  a 
spectral  abyss — a  blue  dream  resting  above  us, 
which  the  mind  of  the  human  has  never  been 
able  to  grasp  as  a  reality. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  tender- 


56 


NATURE  FOB   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


ness  of  color  and  the  varied  hues  in  the 
sky  are  unseen  by  the  average  person.  I  have 
never  met  anyone,  other  than  a  scientist  or  a 
landscape-painter,  who  could  conscientiously 
say  that  he  had  spent  five  consecutive  minutes 
of  his  life  looking  at  the  blue  above  him.  Its 
colors  are  not  violent  enough,  nor  its  changes 
swift  enough  to  attract  attention.  A  scarlet 
cloud  draws  the  eye  at  once,  but  the  clear  sky, 
with  the  sun  burning  a  great  hole  in  the 
blue,  and  throwing  off  a  ring  of  pale  yellow 
light  that  radiates  outward,  decreasing  in  the 
most  delicate  gradations  until  lost  in  the  pre- 
vailing azure,  is  scarcely  ever  remarked.  From 
dawn  to  dusk  pale  tints  of  silver,  lilac,  and  ashes 
of  roses  lie  all  around  the  horizon  -  circle, 
reaching  up  toward  the  zenith  as  though  aspir- 
ing to  be  rid  of  earthly  taint ;  hour  after  hour 
the  sky  overhead  is  passing  from  dark  blue  to 
pale  yellow,  from  pale  yellow  to  amethyst,  from 
amethyst  to  opal;  evening  after  evening  the 
cloudless  sun  goes  down,  leaving  pale  bands  of 
spectrum  colors  on  the  twilight  sky,  but  all  this 
is  waste  splendor  so  far  as  the  average  person  is 
concerned.  People  have  an  unhappy  fashion 
of  seeing  with  their  ears.  Someone  tells  them 
of  the  Alpine  glow  upon  the  snow-cap  of  the 


THE  BLUE  SKY 


67 


Jungfrau  and  they  go  there  to  watch,  perhaps 
days  at  a  time,  for  its  appearance,  when  they 
might  see  the  same  pink  glow  upon  their  own 
skies  at  home  almost  any  summer  evening.  It 
is  not  necessary  for  one  to  go  beyond  the  door- 
yard  to  see  beauty.  The  open  sky  will  reveal 
more  varied  lights  and  colors  than  anyone  could 
schedule  or  tabulate  or  talk  about  in  a  lifetime. 
Seen  from  our  valleys,  instead  of  being  a 
monotonous  blue  roof  above  us,  it  is,  perhaps, 
the  most  changeable  transparency  that  human 
eyes  have  ever  looked  at  or  looked  through. 

But  while  this  variety  is  true  of  any  one  patch 
of  sky,  it  does  not  follow  that  all  blue  skies 
are  alike,  even  in  their  variety.  Atmosphere, 
upon  which  so  much  responsibility  for  light  and 
color  has  been  thrown,  is  the  potent  cause  of 
many  different  skies  over  many  different  lands. 
In  dry  countries,  where  there  is  much  dust  in 
the  air,  the  blue  is  often  a  pale  turquoise,  or  if 
there  is  great  heat,  then  it  is  pinkish,  or  rose- 
hued.  One  hears  much  in  tourists*  descrip- 
tions of  "the  deep  blue  sky  of  Italy,"  but  if 
they  mean  by  that  a,  pure  blue  sky,  their  descrip- 
tions are  not  accurate.  It  is  oftener  pale  lilac, 
rose-hued,  or  saffron-tinted,  and  not  to  be  com- 
pared in  intensity  and  purity  of  blue  to  the  skies 


58 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


of  Scotland.  In  no  warm  country  is  there  such 
clear  blue  sky  as  one  may  see  in  the  no~rthwest 
of  America ;  and  if  we  may  believe  the  descrip- 
tions of  Dr.  Nansen,  the  Arctic  explorer,  this 
blue  grows  more  intense  as  we  move  toward  the 
poles,  until  at  last  it  becomes  of  that  violet  hue 
seen  from  mountain-peaks.  The  Egyptian  blue 
is  often  "deep"  when  the  air  is  clear  and 
still,  but  with  winds,  heat  and  dryness  it  takes 
on  a  warm  tone  as  though  it  were  seen  through 
a  red  dust  -  veil.  A  similar  effect  may  be 
noticed  over  cities  like  London,  where  smoke 
and  soot  are  continually  fouling  the  air.  The 
blue  has  a  suffusion  of  pink  or  copper-color  that 
gives  it  a  hot  look.  In  moist  climates  like  Ger- 
many or  Holland,  there  are  often  very  clear 
skies,  but  the  moisture  particles  in  the  air 
usually  tend  toward  the  production  of  a  pale, 
milky  whiteness  in  the  blue.  Again,  in  all 
countries  of  the  northern  temperate  zone  the 
purest  summer  skies  are  in  the  months  of  May 
and  June.  After  these  months  the  hot  and 
dry  summer  begins  to  pale  the  blue,  and  in  the 
autumn,  when  the  leaves  are  changing  to  gold 
and  scarlet,  the  sky  in  perfect  harmony  becomes 
rosy  and  often  opalescent. 
If  people  are  little  observant  of  the  blue  sky 


THE  BLUE  SKY 


59 


in  its  color  transitions,  they  are,  perhaps,  even 
less  observant  of  its  luminosity  or  light-diffus- 
ing power.  It  is  a  popular  belief  that  the  sky 
is  a  screen  or  veil  to  the  earth,  and  that  its 
principal  reason  for  existence  is  that  it  tempers 
light  to  human  eyes  by  obscuring  it.  And  that 
is  partly  true.  But  the  blue  also  receives,  dif- 
fuses, and  transmits  light.  It  is  luminous, 
at  times  scintillant,  in  small  bright  points.  By 
long  and  attentive  watching  one  can  actually 
see  these  little  points  of  light  twisting,  curling, 
falling  and  disappearing  quickly  as  though 
they  were  mere  flashings  of  star  dust.  And  this 
does  not  refer  to  that  portion  of  the  blue  sky 
near  the  sun  where  shafts  of  light  are  thrown 
down,  but  to  the  portions  far  removed,  which 
are  seen,  perhaps,  when  the  sun  itself  is  under 
a  cloud.  The  pure  blue  throws  out  more  light 
than  we  imagine.  If  a  sheet  of  white  paper  be 
held  under  it,  even  when  the  sun  is  below  the 
horizon  and  eliminated  from  the  problem,  it 
will  appear  much  lighter  than  the  sky.  But  is 
it  lighter  ?  Paper  is  not  a  body  luminous  in 
itself.  All  the  light  there  is  in  it  is  merely  the 
reflection  of  what  comes  from  the  sky,  and  a 
reflection  can  never  be  so  strong  as  its  original. 
There  is  an  apparent  contradiction  just  here, 


60 


NATURE  FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


which  may,  perhaps,  be  cleared  up  by  some  such 
explanation  as  this  :  Glancing  up  at  the  sky  our 
eyes  look  inevitably  into  the  shadows  of  air  par- 
ticles ;  the  light  that  comes  to  us  is  transmitted 
through  and  between  the  particles.  Glancing 
down  at  the  paper,  we  are  looking  into  the  high 
lights  of  the  paper  instead  of  shadows ;  the 
light  is  now  reflected  instead  of  transmitted. 

It  is  because  of  the  coloring  of  the  blue,  and 
the  transmission  of  light  in  countless  infinitesi- 
mal points  through  it  that  we  fail  to  appreci- 
ate its  luminosity,  and  yet  next  to  the  sun  and 
its  reflections  it  is  the  most  luminous  phenom- 
enon in  the  universe.  It  blinds  the  light  of  the 
stars  so  that  we  fail  to  see  them  in  the  daytime, 
and  even  the  moon  looks  pale  and  wan  beyond 
it  until  the  sun  has  gone  down  and  the  light 
fades  out  of  the  atmospheric  canopy.  Upon 
the  earth  its  effect  is  equally  apparent.  The 
snow  reflects  the  light  of  the  blue  sky  like  the 
sheet  of  paper ;  and  the  white  daisies  of  the 
meadow,  the  white  foam  of  the  sea,  and  the  sil- 
ver flash  from  still  waters  are  but  reflections  of 
it.  From  mountain-heights  at  twilight  one  may 
see  below  in  the  valley  the  thread-like  river,  the 
white  farm-houses,  and  the  fields  of  yellow  grain 
showing  like  spots  of  light  upon  the  shadowed 


THE   BLUE  SKY 


61 


landscape.  Whence  comes  the  light  thrown 
back  to  heaven  by  these  objects  if  not  from  the 
blue  sky  overhead  ?  Because  sky-beams  do  not 
fall  like  rain-drops  we  think,  perhaps,  they  do 
not  fall  at  all ;  but  their  presence  in  reflection 
is  about  us  on  every  hand. 

But  possibly  more  beautiful  than  the  trans- 
mission of  light  is  its  reflection  as  shown  upon 
this  same  blue  dome  of  air.  When  the  sun  is 
in  the  zenith  all  the  light  is  transmitted,  but 
when  the  sun  is  below  the  horizon  its  light  is 
thrown  up  and  under  the  blue  and  is  reflected. 
Instead  of  looking  into  the  shadows  of  air  par- 
ticles we  are  looking  into  their  high  lights. 
This  gives  the  effect  upon  the  eastern  sky 
that  we  call  the  dawn,  and  the  more  gorgeous 
effect  in  the  west,  called  twilight.  These  two 
effects  are  the  only  ones  that  reveal  fully  the 
reflecting  power  of  the  sky.  If  we  could  rise 
above  the  earth  and  from  the  moon  look  out  tow- 
ard this  world  of  ours,  we  should  doubtless  see  it 
muffled  by  a  great  luminous  covering.  The  light 
from  it  would  all  be  reflected  and  the  white,  misty 
air  might  completely  hide  the  earth  from  view. 
It  would  not,  however,  be  a  brilliant  or  scintil- 
lant  light.  Like  that  of  the  dawn,  it  would  be 
softly  pervasive.  The  atmosphere  from  which 


Reflection 
from  the 
blue. 


62 


NATURE  FOR  ITS  OWN  SAKE 


the  dawn  is  reflected  is  not  hard  or  smooth 
like  metal  ;  it  is  not  so  compact  even  as  the 
softest,  thinnest  cloud  of  the  stratus,  yet  what 
beautiful  light  it  throws  off  !  The  white  light 
that  hangs  over  a  city  at  night  when  there  is 
fog,  caused  by  the  glare  of  many  lamps  thrown 
back  from  the  fog  bank,  is  brutal  and  coarse  by 
comparison  ;  and  the  ruddy  sunset  caused  by 
dust  and  cloud  is  more  palpable  and  less  crys- 
talline. There  is  no  glare  or  flare  about  the 
dawn.  The  light  comes  from  a  deep  transpar- 
ency quivering  under  the  rays  of  the  sun,  re- 
ceiving its  illumination  in  straight  shafts  of 
fire,  and  yet  reflecting  it  with  a  softness  of 
glow  that  delights  the  eye  by  its  purity  and 
delicacy. 

Surely  this  light  of  dawn  is  the  highest  mani- 
festation of  beauty  in  the  universe.  Colors  do 
not  equal  it,  lines  and  forms  of  cloud  and  earth 
are  petty  compared  to  it,  shadow  is  its  very 
antithesis.  It  is  not  wonderful  that  it  should 
have  been  the  inspiration  of  Orphic  song  and 
the  symbol  of  deity  in  ancient  religions.  To- 
day it  seems  a  sign  of  preternatural  glory  even 
to  modern  materialism.  Not  the  sun  itself. 
but  its  light  (symbolic  of  the  purity  and  lumi- 
nosity of  Deity)  bowed  the  head  of  Zoroaster. 


THE  BLUE   SKY 


63 


The  faith  is  strange  with  us  now,  and  yet  how 
well  founded  it  was  in  natural  religion.  In- 
stinctively all  races  of  men,  whether  savage 
or  civilized,  lift  the  hands  and  raise  the  eyes 
toward  the  heavens  as  though  beyond  the  blue 
dome  rested  the  seat  of  final  justice,  and  its 
shining  light  was  a  manifestation  of  Supreme 
Power.  The  spiritual  in  man  has  always  looked 
upward  and  counted  the  future  abiding-place 
as  somewhere  beyond  that  sky ;  but  the  light 
wherewith  God  "covereth  himself  as  with  a 
garment''  is  no  longer  regarded  as  a  token  and 
a  message — a  call  to  thanksgiving  and  to  prayer. 
The  muezzin's  voice,  the  angelus  bell — some 
human  ritual — now  bends  the  knee  where  once 
the  white  dawn  drew  all  eyes  as  to  the  open 
gate  of  paradise.  In  the  long  centuries  of  his- 
tory how  many  prophets  and  peoples  have  gone 
their  way  to  the  grave  following  symbols  of 
their  own  making — devices  that  have  turned 
to  dust  and  mingled  with  human  clay  !  How 
many  times  has  the  old  order  changed  !  How 
many  times  have  new  faiths,  new  symbols,  new 
signs  arisen  !  Yet  the  light  in  the  east  has 
never  changed,  never  lost  its  lustre.  Its  glory 
was  from  the  beginning  as  it  shall  be  to  the 
ending.  Modern  science  may  write  it  down  as 


64 


NATURE   FOB  ITS  OWN   SAKE 


Significance 


a  material  phenomenon,  and  modern  creeds 
may  discard  its  worship  as  idolatrous ;  but 
priest  and  scientist,  in  common  with  all  hu- 
manity, have  felt  its  splendor  and  known  its 
beauty.  Was  beauty  then  made  for  ashes,  and 
has  splendor  no  significance  ?  The  aspiring 
soul  will  not  so  account  them.  It  believes  that 
He  who  stretched  out  the  heavens  as  a  cur- 
tain and  laid  the  beams  of  His  chambers  in  the 
waters  makes  Himself  manifest  in  the  splendor 
of  His  light,  and  in  the  beauty  of  its  reflection 
upon  the  morning  sky. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CLOUDS  AND  CLOUD  FORMS 

A  CLOUD  is  always  a  cloud,  no  matter  by 
what  name  it  may  be  called  or  what  its  form 
or  height  above  the  earth.  The  fog  that 
knocks  about  our  ears  is  made  up  of  the  same 
visible  vapors  as  the  heaped-up  cumulus  rising 
tower-like  thousands  of  feet  above  us.  That 
one  lies  along  the  ground  and  that  the  other 
rises  to  a  lofty  altitude  is  due  merely  to  a  differ- 
ence in  temperature  and  density. 

Clouds  are  formed  by  sudden  lowerings  of 
the  temperature  of  moist  air;  and  this  lower- 
ing of  temperature  is  usually  caused  by  warm 
air  rising  into  higher  altitudes,  expanding  as  it 
rises  and  cooling  as  it  meets  with  the  upper 
cold-air  currents.  The  simplest  and  most  fre- 
quent manner  of  cloud-making  is  this :  The 
radiation  of  heat  from  the  earth  forms  into  a 
column-like  current  of  air,  and  the  natural 
tendency  of  this  current  is  to  push  upward, 
seeking  an  exit  into  cooler  regions.  It  keeps 
rising,  expanding  as  it  reaches  thinner  air, 
65 


Cloud- 
making. 


66 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


cooling  and  becoming  moister  as  it  meets  with 
cold  currents,  until  at  last  it  attains  a  height 
where  the  dew-point  *  is  reached.  Then  begins 
the  change  into  cloud. 

The  hot  air  of  summer  rising  upward  reaches 
its  dew-point  very  soon,  and  the  usual  result  is 
the  formation  of  the  large  cloud  which  we  call 
the  cumulus.  When  there  is  little  heat  or 
moisture  in  the  rising  air,  and  no  pronounced 
cold  in  the  aerial  regions  through  which  it 
passes,  as  is  often  the  case  in  the  spring  of  the 
year,  the  air-current  may  rise  to  a  greater  height, 
and  when  finally  the  dew-point  is  reached  the 
condensation  appears  in  the  form  of  the  stratus 
or  cumulo-stratus  cloud.  The  dryer  and  colder 
the  ascending  current,  the  higher  it  must  rise 
before  it  condenses  ;  and  so  at  times  it  rises  to 
the  region  of  frost,  then  freezes  into  the  thin 
clouds  of  the  upper  cirrus,  which  are  made  up 
of  tiny  ice-needles  floating  in  curls  and  wisps 
against  the  blue  sky. 

When  once  formed,  the  clouds  are  heavier 
than  the  air  in  which  they  float,  and  their  nat- 
ural tendency  from  the  moment  of  their  forma- 
tion is  downward  and  earthward.  Knowing 
this  fact,  we  are  often  led  to  wonder  why  they 
*  See  Chapter  V.  for  explanation  of  the  dew-point. 


CLOUDS   AND   CLOUD   FORMS 


67 


do  not  fall,  why  they  do  not  rest  upon  the 
earth  instead  of  in  the  air.  There  are  several 
reasons  for  their  not  doing  so,  and  all  of  these 
reasons  taken  together  may  account  for  the  ap- 
parent defiance  of  the  law  of  gravity. 

Thistle-down  will  speedily  find  an  abiding- 
place  on  the  ground  if  there  be  no  wind,  but  a 
gentle  breeze  will  carry  it  drifting  for  miles, 
now  high,  now  low,  always  soaring,  sinking, 
floating.  Something  of  this  effect  is  produced 
upon  the  clouds  by  the  winds  and  the  moving 
currents  of  air.  They  are  always  forming  and 
changing  and  being  kept  in  motion  by  the 
winds.  The  travelling  capacity  of  the  different 
cloud  flocks  is,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter,  much 
greater  than  is  generally  supposed. 

Another  and  perhaps  more  potent  cause  of 
certain  clouds  being  kept  above  us  lies  in  the 
warm  currents  of  air  that  are  continually  rising 
from  the  earth  and  buoying  them  up,  very 
much  as  the  heated  air  from  a  stove  or  lamp- 
chimney  may  buoy  up  a  feather.  We  can  see 
this  illustrated  in  the  formation  of  the  clouds 
that  sometimes  hang  about  a  mountain's  top. 
The  warm  currents  of  air  in  the  valley  seek  to 
rise  up  the  side  of  the  mountain  because  it  is  a 
natural  conductor  protecting  them  in  measure 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


from  sudden  gusts  of  wind  and  cold.  They 
rush  up  the  mountain-side  quite  rapidly,  as 
everyone  knows  who  has  stood  there  at  noon- 
time and  felt  the  draft  upward  from  the  valley. 
As  soon  as  they  reach  the  top  of  the  mountain 
they  are  forced  from  shelter  by  the  currents 
coming  after,  and  meet  with  the  cold  winds 
above  the  peak.  The  result  is  quick  condensa- 
tion and  the  formation  of  that  cloud  which  is 
called  the  "  cloud  cap  "  or  "  night  cap  "  of  the 
mountain.  It  is  broken  and  blown  away  by 
the  winds  continually,  but  it  is  also  being  con- 
tinually renewed  by  the  ascending  currents,  so 
that  apparently  it  remains  stationary  and  in- 
tact. It  does  not  sink  down,  because  of  its  re- 
newal and  because  the  currents  in  measure  lift 
it  up. 

Something  of  the  same  process  is  apparent  in 
the  formation  of  what  is  called  the  "banner 
cloud,"  which  appears  to  fly  out  like  a  streamer 
from  some  of  the  Alpine  peaks.  This  cloud  is 
usually  on  the  warm  valley-side  of  the  peak. 
The  moist  air  from  below  rises  along  this  shel- 
tered side  to  the  tip  of  the  peak  before  it  is 
struck  by  the  cold  currents  and  condensed  into 
visible  vapors.  Above  it  and  at  the  sides  the 
cloud  is  being  cut  off  and  drifted  away  by 


CLOUDS  AND  CLOUD  FORMS 


39 


the  winds.  It  is  visible  only  where  it  clings 
to  the  lee-side  of  the  peak,  and  it  stretches 
out  into  the  air  as  far  as  shelter  is  afforded  it 
in  the  shape  of  a  long,  thin  flag.  At  a  distance 
it  looks  as  though  it  were  something  perma- 
nent, whereas  it  is  only  a  continuous-forming 
cloud  cut  sharp  on  its  sides  by  the  keen  edges 
of  the  wind. 

But  these  illustrations  are  of  exceptional 
clouds,  and  even  with  them  the  rising  currents 
alone  are  hardly  sufficient  to  account  for  their 
being  sustained  in  air.  The  majority  of  clouds 
are  formed  in  open  space  and  their  air-currents 
have  no  mountain-sides  to  protect  them.  Nor  j 
are  the  common  clouds  subject  to  such  violent 
destruction  as  the  banner  clouds.  Moist  currents 
are  rising,  clouds  are  forming  and  reforming, 
changing,  sinking,  disappearing ;  but  they  are 
not  often  slashed  into  strips  by  the  winds.  We 
must  seek  a  third  cause  for  their  being  sus- 
tained in  air,  and  it  has  been  suggested  already 
by  the  word  "  renewal."  Clouds  after  they  are 
formed  are  practically  self-renewing.  When 
the  ascending  air-current  condenses  into  cloud 
the  heat  of  the  air-current  goes  upward  with  a 
tendency  to  form  newer  and  higher  clouds  as  it 
rises  ;  but  the  moisture  of  the  current,  robbed 


formed  in 
open  space. 


Self-re- 
newal of 


70 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


of  its  heat,  forms  into  tiny,  cold-water  globules 
which  have  a  tendency  to  sink  down  toward  the 
earth.  If  the  globules  are  large  and  heavy 
enough,  owing  to  sudden  condensation,  they  do 
fall  to  the  earth  in  the  shape  of  rain  ;  if  they 
are  small,  as  is  usually  the  case,  they  no 
sooner  sink  down  into  the  warmer  air  from 
whence  they  came,  than  they  are  evaporated 
and  carried  up  to  the  top  of  the  cloud,  to  be 
once  more  condensed  into  mist.  The  "  re- 
newal "  of  the  cloud  then  means  that  the  water- 
globules  are  continually  falling  down  only  to  be 
evaporated  and  sent  up  again  for  recondensa- 
tion.  The  cloud  is  always  losing  at  the  bottom, 
and  its  flat  base  shows  the  line  where  evapora- 
tion takes  place ;  but  it  is  continually  adding  to 
itself  on  the  top.  The  tendency  of  the  cloud  at 
the  top  is  to  form  above  itself  drifts  of  higher 
clouds,  but  this  is  held  in  check  by  the  loss  of 
moisture,  the  dryness  of  the  upper  air,  and  the 
dissipating  action  of  the  sun's  rays  from  above  ; 
the  tendency  of  the  cloud  at  the  bottom  is  to 
sink  down,  but  this  is  held  in  check  by  the 
continual  evaporation  as  the  water-globules  fall 
into  the  warmer,  lower  air.  The  cloud  then, 
though  in  reality  always  changing,  is  apparent- 
ly stationary  and  without  change.  The  ascend- 


CLOUDS  AND   CLOUD   FORMS 


71 


ing  air-currents  feed  it,  and  when  these  are 
withdrawn  at  night  by  the  decreased  radiation 
from  the  earth,  the  cloud  sinks  and  disappears. 
Hence  it  is  that  when  radiation  begins  in  the 
morning  with  the  warming  rays  of  the  sun, 
clouds  are  formed,  and  when  it  ceases  at  even- 
ing the  lower  clouds  disappear  and  only  the  high 
and  comparatively  dry  ones  remain. 

The  meteorologists  have  established  four 
broad  classes  of  clouds  according  to  their  differ- 
ent forms,  and  the  different  heights  at  which 
they  are  usually  seen.  The  classification  is 
largely  for  the  sake  of  convenience  because,  as 
has  been  already  intimated,  clouds  are  substan- 
tially the  same  thing  whether  high  or  low  in  the 
air ;  and  the  different  forms  run  into  each 
other  so  closely  that  it  is  often  difficult  to  tell 
one  from  another.  The  four  classes,  beginning 
with  the  highest  and  ending  with  the  lowest,  are 
the  cirrus,  the  stratus,  the  cumulus,  and  the 
nimbus.  There  are  some  subdivisions  which 
may  be  recited  in  order,  but  the  broad  divisions 
are  given  at  first  to  avoid  confusion. 

THE  CIRRUS  (1)  is  the  frailest  and  the  lightest 
of  all  the  cloud  forms,  and  drifts  at  the  great- 
est altitude.  It  is  sometimes  seen  fifty  thou- 
sand feet  or  more  above  the  earth,  though  its 


72 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


usual  elevation  is  not  so  great.  Apparently  it 
stands  still  in  thin  wisps  and  curls  against  the 
blue,  but  in  reality  it  is  a  rapid  traveller  with 
the  wind,  and  sometimes  reaches  so  great  a  ve- 
locity as  ninety  miles  an  hour.  It  is  not  a  large 
cloud  and  in  form  is  curled  like  hair,  is  fibrous, 
or  perhaps  feathery.  At  times  it  is  streaked 
across  the  sky  in  a  light  film  somewhat  like  the 
Milky  Way,  but  more  frequently  it  is  in  small, 
thin  patches.  It  has  also  many  patterns  that 
resemble  stripes,  tails,  plumes,  and  wings,  but 
they  are  all  diaphanous  and  film-like.  When 
it  appears  in  streaks  and  lines  these  are  usually 
parallel  to  the  wind,  and  are  commonly  spoken 
of  as  "  mares'-tails,"  ' '  goats'-hair,"  or  "  cats'- 
tails."  These  clouds  often  move  in  irregular, 
straggling  groups.  There  may  be  only  a  few 
straw-like  wisps,  and  then  again  the  upper  space 
may  be  spattered  with  them.  Too  thin  and 
nebulous  as  a  general  thing  to  show  shadows, 
they  are  the  brightest  of  all  the  receivers  and 
reflectors  of  light.  This  may  be  for  two  rea- 
sons. First,  they  are  higher  than  any  other 
clouds  and  receive  a  more  powerful  light  from 
the  sun  because  of  the  clearness  and  thinness  of 
the  air  in  which  they  drift ;  secondly,  they  are 
ice-clouds,  that  is,  made  up  of  needles  of  ice, 


CLOUDS   AND   CLOUD   FORMS 


73 


and  are  more  capable  of  reflecting  light  than 
the  ordinary  vapor  clouds.  Certainly  their 
luminosity  is  their  strongest  feature  aside  from 
their  peculiar  spray-like  or  feathery  form, 
though  their  color  is  often  remarkable.  At 
dawn  they  are  the  first  ones  to  catch  the  light 
from  below  and  reflect  it  in  yellow  or  pink,  and 
at  twilight  they  are  the  last  ones  to  fling  back 
the  scarlets  of  the  sinking  sun.  These  clouds 
are  apparent  in  all  countries  and  in  all  skies, 
and  are  ever  tenants  of  the  upper  region,  though 
some  of  their  branches  or  manifestations  appear 
in  connection  with  clouds  of  the  middle  region. 
The  cirro-stratus  (a)  is  a  mixed  or  composite 
cloud  made  up  from  the  cirrus  and  the  stratus. 
It  is  not  one  of  the  four  large  classes,  but  rather 
a  hybrid  variety  that  must  figure  under  a  sub- 
division. In  reality  it  is  a  part  of  the  cirrus, 
which  has  become  slightly  changed  in  its  form 
and  elevation  by  a  sudden  increase  in  its  moist- 
ure. Grown  heavier  and  denser,  it  has  de- 
scended and  woven  itself  into  long,  thread-like 
lines  resembling  a  net  or  veil  stretched  across 
the  sky.  Its  appearance  is  usually  thought  to 
be  indicative  of  approaching  storm,  and  the  di- 
rection it  takes  shows  whence  the  storm  is  com- 
ing. It  is  a  frost  cloud,  is  frequently  seen  at 


74 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


an  altitude  of  thirty  thousand  feet,  and  has  a 
maximum  travelling  velocity  of  about  seventy 
miles  an  hour.  It  is  the  substance  from  which 
the  halos  about  the  sun  and  moon  are  woven, 
and  is  very  thin,  almost  transparent.  Like  the 
cirrus,  it  casts  no  patches  of  shadow,  is  pale 
white,  and  when  struck  from  beneath  by  the 
rays  of  the  sun  below  the  horizon  is  marvellous 
in  its  delicacy  of  light  and  color. 

The  cirro-cumulus  (b)  is  another  mixed 
cloud.  When  the  cirrus  descends  still  lower 
than  the  region  of  the  cirro-stratus,  its  edges 
of  frost  begin  to  melt  like  the  sharp  sides  of  a 
snow-bank.  It  then  takes  on  a  woolly  appear- 
ance similar  at  times  to  the  small,  detached 
portions  of  true  cumulus,  though  it  lies  in  a 
much  higher  field  of  air.  It  has  a  fashion  of 
breaking  up  into  small,  rounded  patches  like 
rotten  ice  in  a  river,  and  of  drifting  across  the 
sky  in  vast  companies  that  almost  hide  the 
blue.  There  are  two  forms  in  which  it  ap- 
pears. One  is  called  the  "  dappled  sky "  or 
sometimes  "  wool  -  pack  "  from  its  fleecy  nat- 
ure ;  the  other  is  the  "  mackerel  sky,"  which 
is  not  fleecy  but  hard-looking.  The  latter  is 
rarely  seen  as  compared  with  other  cloud  forms, 
and  in  England  it  is  always  thought  to  be  the 


CLOUDS   AND   CLOUD   FOEMS 


75 


harbinger  of  fair  weather.  Both  forms  of  this 
cirro-cumulus  are  frost  clouds.  They  drift  at 
an  altitude  of  about  twenty-two  thousand  feet, 
and  have  a  maximum  velocity  of  about  eighty 
miles  an  hour.  Their  movements  across  the 
sky  seem  to  be  systematic  and  orderly,  though 
of  course  the  regularity  of  their  driftings  is 
dependent  entirely  upon  the  steadiness  of  the 
upper  wind-currents. 

THE  STRATUS  (2)  is  a  flat  sheet  cloud  extend- 
ing in  long  lines  across  the  sky,  at  times  bridg- 
ing it,  covering  it  from  horizon  to  horizon.  It 
is  the  cloud,  let  us  say,  of  the  middle-air  re- 
gion, though  every  cloud  that  has  a  sheet-like 
form  or  looks  stratified  is  some  kind  of  stratus. 
It  is  usually  formed  when  there  is  little  wind 
and  only  a  mild  radiation  is  going  on.  The  air 
as  it  rises  gets  gradually  cooler  until  the  dew- 
point  is  reached,  when  this  cloud  forms  and 
extends  itself  across  the  sky  in  long,  thin  drifts 
like  the  smoke  from  factory  chimneys  in  calm 
weather.  In  color  it  is  a  gray  cloud,  though 
occasionally,  when  very  thin  and  the  sun  or 
moon  is  shining  through  it,  it  looks  bluish  in 
tint.  At  times  it  has  a  concave  or  a  convex  ap- 
pearance, and  at  other  times  it  is  wavy  or  un- 
dulating. It  is  from  ten  to  twenty  thousand 


76 


NATUKE   FOE   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


feet  above  the  earth,  and  though  its  movement 
is  hardly  perceptible  to  the  eye,  it  may  be  drift- 
ing at  the  rate  of  fifty  miles  an  hour.  Its  effect 
in  making  a  hazy  day  is  quite  noticeable,  and 
at  sunset,  when  it  lies  across  the  western  hori' 
zon  in  bars,  it  is  often  very  pronounced  in  reds 
or  chrome-yellows. 

The  strato-cumulus  (a)  is  another  and  per- 
haps more  common  form  of  the  stratus.  It  is 
a  heavier  variety,  darker  in  color,  and  more 
roll-like  in  form,  caused  by  its  having  about  it 
something  of  the  lumpy  nature  of  the  cumulus, 
yet  with  enough  of  the  stratus  to  make  it  form 
in  a  layer  along  the  sky.  It  is  a  cloud  that 
may  send  forth  rain,  though  it  often  overhangs 
the  earth  in  dark  folds  for  days  at  a  time  with- 
out giving  forth  a  drop.  At  times  it  looks  like 
a  compact,  dense  rain  cloud,  and  when  it  as- 
sumes this  shape  it  is  often  confused  with  the 
nimbus. 

CUMULUS  (3)  is  the  name  given  to  any  cloud 
that  has  a  heaped-up,  mountainous,  or  lumpy 
look  about  it.  The  white  patches  that  bowl 
across  the  sky  on  a  summer's  day  are  detached 
portions  of  cumulus  ;  but  the  most  noticeable 
form  of  it  is  the  "  heap  "  cloud  that  on  warm 
afternoons  lies  off  in  the  southern  sky,  rising 


CLOUDS  AND   CLOUD   FORMS 


77 


far  upward  toward  the  blue  in  fantastic  turrets, 
domes,  and  peaks.  The  bases  of  these  clouds 
are  usually  dark  in  shadow,  flat,  and  cut  sharp  ; 
while  their  tops  are  cast  in  wreaths  and  billows 
of  vapor.  They  appear  at  times  to  be  of  great 
height,  for  though  their  bases  are  usually  not 
more  than  five  thousand  feet  up,  their  tops 
sometimes  reach  forty  thousand  feet  from  the 
ground.  At  such  an  altitude  the  crests  look 
woolly,  which  probably  indicates  that  the  cloud 
has  reached  a  cold  region  and  has  changed  to 
frost-dust  on  its  top.  Usually  these  clouds 
appear  to  stand  firmly  and  to  be  motionless, 
though  they  are  always  changing,  their  bottoms 
sinking  away  and  their  tops  being  continually 
renewed.  Moreover,  they  are  drifted  by  winds 
at  the  rate  of  about  twenty-five  miles  an  hour, 
though  at  other  times  they  may  scarcely  move 
at  all.  After  sunset  they  usually  sink  and  dis- 
appear entirely. 

The  heavy  cumuli  are  summer  clouds,  and 
are  not  seen  in  cold  climates  nor  upon  cold 
days.  The  tropical  region  is  their  home, 
though  they  are  native  to  the  temperate  zones 
in  midsummer,  and  are  often  seen  rising  along 
the  horizon  like  a  range  of  snow-clad  moun- 
tains, with  hills  and  valleys  running  up  or  down 


78 


NATUKE   FOE   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


or  across  them.  In  outline  they  are  graceful,  and 
in  light-and-shade  they  are  often  sharp-marked. 
The  best  time  to  study  them  is  in  the  evening, 
when  they  are  lying  back  at  the  south  or  east. 
Then  the  pinnacles  and  peaks  glow  with  light, 
and  make  the  snowy-mountain  illusion  more 
palpable  than  ever  ;  or  they  turn  into  phantom, 
rock-based  promontories  with  spectral  tides  of 
vapor  at  their  feet  that  sound  not  and  shock 
not,  yet  rise  slowly  higher  and  higher  upon  the 
snowy  walls.  Occasionally  a  tall,  heavy  mass  is 
veiled  by  a  thin  layer  of  the  stratus,  through 
which  the  form  of  the  cumulus  is  seen  to  burn 
like  a  great  opal.  Sometimes,  too,  a  heavy 
cumulus  is  seen  through  city  smoke  at  sunset 
glowing  like  molten  metal.  When  in  the  west 
and  in  front  of  the  sun  this  cloud  is  the  one 
that  shows  us  the  gold  or  silver  lining  ;  and 
under  sunset  light  it  is  possible  for  it  to  take 
on  all  tints  and  shades.  When  it  is  not  near 
the  sun  but  lies  off  at  the  side,  we  often  see  the 
pink,  "  Alpine  glow  "  suffusing  the  white  cas- 
tellated tops  ;  and  the  shadows  caused  by  sharp 
breaks  of  form  often  show  blue,  lilac,  and  even 
pale  green  in  hue.  v 

The  cumulo-nimbus  (a)  is  substantially  the 
same  cloud  as  the  cumulus  except  that  it  drifts 


CLOUDS  AND  CLOUD  FOEMS 


79 


at  a  slightly  lower  level,  is  not  a  tall  tower 
cloud,  and  has  in  it  an  admixture  of  the  nim- 
bus or  rain  cloud.  It  is  in  fact  a  form  of  rain 
cloud  and  is  responsible  for  the  "sun-shower  "  as 
well  as  for  others  of  greater  force,  like  the  thun- 
der-shower. It  is  also  a  cloud  that  shows  a  sil- 
ver lining  when  seen  against  the  sun,  and  at 
night  it  reflects  heat-lightning  very  brilliantly. 
In  the  daytime  its  base  appears  dark,  its  top 
light ;  and  at  twilight,  when  lying  off  in  the 
east,  it  banks  up  at  times  like  a  table  mountain 
in  layers  and  terraces  that  reflect  the  pinks  and 
violets  of  the  sunset.  Its  usual  altitude  is  about 
four  thousand  feet,  and  its  movement  is  more 
rapid  than  that  of  the  cumulus. 

THE  NIMBUS  (4)  is  the  rain  cloud,  and  every 
cloud  from  which  rain  falls  is  some  form  or 
combination  of  the  nimbus,  though  the  nimbus 
proper  is  the  flat,  sheet-like  or  rolled  rain  cloud. 
It  is  the  closest  to  the  earth  of  all  the  clouds 
and  is  consequently  the  first  one  to  receive  the 
smoke,  dust,  and  heat  arising  from  the  earth. 
By  comparison  it  is  a  foul  cloud,  and  is  for  that 
reason  a  rain  cloud — the  formation  of  vapor 
spherules  being,  perhaps,  dependent  upon  the 
presence  of  dust-particles  in  the  air.  The  nim- 
bus takes  all  forms  according  to  its  density  and 


80 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


velocity.  In  afternoon  showers  it  resembles  the 
cumulus ;  in  driving  storms  it  lies  lower  to  the 
earth,  moves  in  great,  rolling  puffs,  or  flattens 
out  into  thin,  fast-flying  sheets  with  ragged  edges 
and  long,  projecting  arms  like  antennae.  At 
times,  when  a  storm  is  prolonged  for  days,  the 
forms  of  the  clouds  are  hardly  discernible  ;  the 
masses  are  lying  low  in  the  air  and  spread  from 
one  to  another  with  such  close  connection  that 
they  look  like  one  vast  stretch  of  gray  across 
the  sky.  In  thunder-storms  these  clouds  often 
bank  up  dark  and  threatening  in  the  form  of 
an  advance-guard.  They  move  forward  quite 
rapidly  and  carry  with  them  a  rushing  wind. 
The  first-comers  are  always  the  darkest-looking 
and  most  violent  of  the  storm,  yet  they  give 
forth  neither  lightning  nor  rain.  They  seem 
to  be  only  wind-makers,  though  it  is  common 
knowledge  that  clouds  are  not  makers  of  wind, 
but  merely  manifestations  of  wind  existent. 
The  gray  clouds  behind  the  dark  advance-guard 
are  the  ones  that  carry  the  rain.  In  tornadoes 
the  darker  ones  often  twist,  writhe,  and  roll 
over  one  another  as  though  pulled  by  a  violent 
under-current  of  wind ;  in  cyclones  the  move- 
ment is  similar,  but  from  an  opposite  cause. 
In  the  latter  case  the  pull  is  likely  to  change 


CLOUDS   AND   CLOUD   FORMS 


81 


to  a  push  caused  by  rising  swirls  of  heated  air 
trying  to  escape  up  a  vortex  into  cooler  regions. 
The  color  of  the  nimbus  is  always  cast  in  gray, 
and  the  darkest  portions  are  usually  the  ones 
under  deepest  shadow.  Poet  and  romancer  to 
the  contrary,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  "  black  " 
cloud  seen  in  the  daytime — nor  for  that  mat- 
ter at  any  other  time.  The  heavy  storm-cloud 
may  border  upon  purple,  and  sometimes  pre- 
ceding cyclones  it  is  sea-green,  but  it  is  never 
"  black." 

The  different  forms  and  kinds  of  clouds  given 
above  enumerate  only  certain  families.  Aside 
from  the  large  groups  there  are  patches  of 
cloud  being  continually  woven  or  torn  from  one 
family  to  blend  and  intermingle  with  another 
family,  thus  making  many  hybrid  varieties.  It 
would  be  almost  impossible  to  catalogue  the  dif- 
ferent cloud  forms  that  one  may  see  on  an  ordi- 
nary summer  day  ;  or  the  parts  of  clouds  such 
as  scud,  wrack,  wreaths,  and  sprays  wrenched 
away  from  the  parent  body  by  storms  and 
squalls. 

The  form  of  clouds  usually  gives  the  ear-mark 
of  recognition  to  such  families  as  the  cirrus, 
the  stratus,  and  the  cumulus ;  and  yet  this  form 
is  never  the  same  for  any  length  of  time.  It  is 


Scattering 

cloud 

farmi. 


82 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


always  shifting,  changing — being  added  to  or 
subtracted  from  by  varying  conditions.  It 
may  describe  the  species,  and  yet  is  hardly  to 
be  called  the  characteristic  feature.  That 
which  strikes  us  as  peculiar  and  determinate 
about  any  and  every  cloud  is  its  drifting, 
swaying  lightness.  The  glide  down  a  vast  in- 
cline of  air  that  marks  a  white  swan  settling 
to  water  is  usually  considered  the  most  poetic 
of  all  motions ;  yet  it  is  somewhat  gross  and 
heavy  compared  with  the  grace  of  a  moving 
cloud.  A  cloud  drifts  with  the  wind,  not  be- 
fore it ;  it  lies  in  the  air,  not  beyond  it ;  it  has 
no  visible  support  and  yet  appears  supported. 
Apparently  defying  the  law  of  gravitation,  it 
seems  to  have  no  relation  to  the  earth,  but  like 
a  phantom  ship  sails  the  celestial  blue,  wholly 
unconcerned  as  to  destination,  wholly  careless 
as  to  dangers.  All  of  them,  singly  or  in  flocks, 
are  mere  vapors  —  such  things  as  dreams  are 
made  of — the  wonder- world  of  childish  fancy, 
yet  how  beautiful  they  are  ! 

"  Forming  and  breaking  in  the  sky, 
I  fancy  all  shapes  are  there ; 
Temple,  mountain,  monument,  spire, 
Ships  rigged  out  with  sails  of  fire 
And  blown  by  the  evening  air." 


CLOUDS  AND  CLOUD  FORMS 


83 


They  rise,  fall,  or  change  before  onr  eyes 
with  no  effort,  no  sound,  no  apparent  design. 
Now  they  are  scattered  wide  over  the  blue,  now 
they  are  huddled  together  and  driven  in  flocks 
by  the  wind ;  but  they  never  seem  to  be  in  a 
hurry.  An  epitome  of  idle  content,  having 
no  actual  power  in  themselves,  they  are,  never- 
theless, the  visible  sign  of  aerial  energy.  The 
wind  blows  them  whither  it  listoth.  They  drift 
around  and  about  the  world  and  have  no  abid- 
ing-place, no  resting-place  on  land  or  sea ;  yet 
wherever  they  go  they  gladden  the  eye  and 
cheer  the  heart,  and  in  every  landscape  they 
are  the  bright  spots  of  beauty. 

And  what  wonderful  luminosity  there  may 
be  in  a  cloud  !  The  upper  cirrus  just  before 
sunset  is  often  dazzling  in  its  light,  and  when 
struck  full  by  the  sun's  rays,  there  is  nothing 
more  intense  in  luminosity  than  the  cap  of  the 
tall  cumulus.  The  ancients  felt  the  splendor 
of  this  cloud  light,  and  it  is  not  strange  that 
the  Old  Testament  writers  should  speak  of  the 
"  pillar  of  cloud "  that  guided  the  wanderings 
in  the  wilderness,  of  God  descending  on  a  cloud, 
of  a  cloud  as  the  resting-place  of  the  Mercy 
Seat  and  the  standing-place  of  angels.  The 
purity  of  these  white  vapors  of  the  upper  air 


Drift  of 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


seems  uncontaminated  by  earthly  touch,  and 
their  shining  surfaces  are  not  comparable  to  any 
terrestrial  thing  save  the  newly  fallen  snow 
glistening  on  the  highest  Alpine  peaks. 

And  in  color  what  is,  what  could  be,  more 
gorgeous,  without  a  note  of  discord,  than  the 
western  clouds  at  sunset  ?  They  have  no  hue 
in  themselves,  and  yet,  like  the  flowers  of  the 
fields  and  the  waters  in  the  lakes,  they  have  the 
power  of  reflecting  and  refracting  colors  of  the 
utmost  brilliancy.  And  how  vivid  these  hues 
become  as  the  hot  sun  throws  his  parting  shafts 
of  fire  over  and  under  and  through  the  fleecy 
drifts  of  vapor  !  After  the  red  disk  has  fallen 
below  the  horizon  the  scattered  patches  con- 
tinue to  burn  and  glow  in  scarlets,  golds,  and 
pinks — all  imaginable  hues  from  bright  blood- 
red  to  dark  violet.  As  the  sun  sinks  still  lower 
its  shafts  strike  upward  upon  the  under-sur- 
faces  of  the  clouds,  and  for  a  time  the  color 
seems  even  more  brilliant.  And  when  the 
cloud-bars  just  across  the  horizon  begin  to  dim 
their  lustre  the  high,  "  mackerel  sky  "  catches 
up  the  color  and  the  flame  mounts  upward  to 
the  zenith,  from  cloud  to  cloud,  like  steps  in  a 
ladder  of  fire,  lessening  in  glory  as  the  height 
is  reached,  and  finally  lost  entirely  in  the  blue. 


CLOUDS  AND  CLOUD  FORMS 


85 


Last  of  the  twilight  glories,  when  the  light  has 
gone  out  of  the  lower  clouds  and  the  white 
cumulus  has  turned  to  dark  purple,  the  wavy 
forms  of  the  cirrus  may  be  seen  flaming  like 
wind-blown  torches  far  up  the  western  sky. 

Common  as  the  sunset  colors  are,  we  never 
seem  to  weary  of  them.  They  are  always  things 
to  look  at  and  to  wonder  over.  No  hues  seen 
upon  the  earth  are  so  full  of  light  and  fire,  so 
brilliant  in  variety.  The  colors  of  the  rainbow 
show  a  celestial  spectrum,  but  they  seem  to 
pale  beside  the  sky-splendors  of  the  west ;  and 
as  for  the  colors  of  the  clouds  at  dawn,  they  are 
much  paler  than  those  of  the  sunset.  At  noon- 
time the  clouds  show  no  color  in  particular. 
Occasionally  low-lying  cloud  flocks  over  a  city 
like  London  will  have  a  heated,  flushed  look,  and 
when  close  to  or  under  the  sun  they  will  glow 
like  plates  of  hot  iron  ;  but  this  is  caused  by 
local  dust  and  soot  in  the  air.  Often,  too,  in 
all  warm  countries  a  cloud  passing  across  the 
face  of  the  sun  will  have  silvery  or  golden  edges, 
and  a  pyramid  of  cumulus  may  be  pink  in  the 
lights  and  blue  in  the  shadows ;  but,  aside 
from  such  exceptions,  the  clouds  at  noonday 
are  practically  white  in  light  or  grayed  under 
shadow. 


86 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


We  realize  quickly  enough  how  important  to 
our  enjoyment  of  landscape  are  the  sky  and  the 
white  clouds  as  soon  as  they  are  cut  off  from 
our  view  by  the  drawn  veil  of  a  rainy  day.  The 
variety  of  color  in  the  sky  and  of  movement  and 
form  in  the  cloud,  the  feeling  of  space,  dis- 
tance, loftiness  in  them  both,  are  gone ;  and 
with  them  perhaps  the  most  effective  features 
of  all  landscape.  Anything  that  obscures  or 
shuts  out  sky-space,  with  its  interminable  depths 
of  blue  and  its  bright  clouds,  mars  one  of  nat- 
ure's greatest  beauties.  Even  a  horizon-line  so 
high  as  to  narrow  the  sweep  is  objectionable  ; 
and  hence  the  valleys  of  the  Alps,  though  grand 
enough  in  view  of  mountain  bulk  and  snowy 
peak,  are  the  least  livable  places  in  Europe. 
The  great  palisade  of  rock  breaks  the  reach  of 
the  sky  and  we  lose  directly  in  color,  light,  and 
atmospheric  perspective.  On  the  contrary,  a 
flat,  low-lying  land,  though  perhaps  the  last  to 
be  loved  by  humanity,  is  in  the  end  the  most 
livable  of  all.  The  prairies  of  North  America, 
the  plains  of  Lombardy,  the  flat  lands  of  eastern 
England,  are  supreme  in  the  feeling  of  space 
in  sky  and  of  distance  in  cloud.  Something  of 
the  great  charm  of  Venice  lies  in  her  flat  lagoons 
and  her  great,  uplifted  sky ;  and  to  those  who 


CLOUDS   AND   CLOUD   FOEMS 


87 


know  their  book  of  landscape  well,  the  green 
fields  of  Holland  arched  by  blue  and  white  are 
the  most  restful,  enjoyable,  serenely  beautiful 
lands  on  the  face  of  Europe. 


CHAPTER  V 


The  vapor- 
capacity  of 
air. 


RAIN  AND  SNOW 

IN  order  to  understand  the  phenomena  of 
ran  and  snow  we  must  consider  for  a  mo- 
ment some  facts  established  by  the  weather 
men.  I  have  no  notion  of  trenching  upon  the 
domain  of  the  meteorologist.  Indeed,  I  had 
thought  to  write  a  book  that  would  suggest 
some  of  nature's  beauties  rather  than  its  bare 
facts,  but  I  find  it  continually  necessary  to  ex- 
plain beauty  by  first  showing  structural  char- 
acter. 

The  capacity  of  air  for  receiving  and  holding 
vapor  depends  upon  temperature.  It  is  small 
at  low  temperatures ;  it  is  large  at  high  tem- 
peratures. That  is  to  say,  the  vapor-carrying 
capacity  of  a  cubic  foot  of  air  is  ten  times  as 
large  at  100°  Fahrenheit  as  at  32°.  At  either 
temperature,  when  the  cubic  foot  has  all  the 
vapor  it  can  carry,  it  is  called  "  saturated. " 
When  more  vapor  is  crowded  in  than  the  cubic 
foot  can  carry  the  result  is  condensation  of  the 
surplus  into  cloud  and  rain.  Perhaps  this  can 


RAIN  AND   SNOW 


89 


be  illustrated  in  a  simple  way  by  putting  a  sup- 
posititious case  in  which  I  shall  use  the  figures 
of  Dr.  Eobert  Mann. 

At  32°  Fahrenheit  a  cubic  foot  of  air  can 
hold  or  carry  2.37  grains  of  vapor  in  invisible 
form.  It  is  then  said  to  have  reached  its  "  dew- 
point."  If  into  that  cubic  foot  of  air  2.38  grains 
of  vapor  were  injected,  the  result  would  be  one- 
hundredth  of  a  grain  of  condensed  mist  or 
cloud.  At  a  temperature  of  60°  each  cubic  foot 
of  air  can  carry  5.87  grains  of  invisible  vapor  ; 
at  80°  each  cubic  foot  can  carry  10.81  grains. 
Consequently,  if  at  any  time  or  for  any  reason  a 
saturated  air  at  a  temperature  of  80°  were  sud- 
denly chilled  down  to  60°,  nearly  5  grains  of  sur- 
plus vapor  would  be  condensed  out  of  each 
aerial  cubic  foot  in  the  form  of  tiny  droplets  of 
rain. 

If  at  a  temperature  of  32°,  the  freezing 
point,  similar  conditions  prevailed — that  is,  if 
a  saturated  air  at  32°  were  suddenly  chilled 
down  to  zero — a  similar  surplus  quantity  of 
vapor  would  be  condensed  in  the  form  of  crys- 
tallized spicnles  of  ice  or  snow.  A  more  violent 
reduction  in  the  temperature  of  a  saturated 
cloud — say  from  100°  down  to  60° — would  pro- 
duce more  vapor  than  the  cloud  could  hold, 


90 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN    SAKE 


and  it  would    inevitably  fall  to    earth    as  a 
shower. 

It  is  now  generally  held,  I  believe,  that  the 
cause  of  clouds  and  rain  is  largely,  if  not  en- 
tirely, the  cooling  of  air  by  expansion  as  it  as- 
cends ;  and  that  intermingled  cold  and  warm 
air,  and  the  chilling  of  air  by  cold  bodies  such 
as  mountain-tops,  have  little  or  no  effect.  Cer- 
tainly the  expansion  of  air  is  the  final  but  not 
always  the  most  immediate  cause.  The  chill- 
ing produced  by  warm  air  driven  against  cold 
air  and  its  result  may  be  frequently  witnessed 
in  the  winter  season  along  the  Atlantic  coast  of 
North  America.  When  the  wind  shifts  to  the 
east  we  are  all  quite  sure  that  thirty-six  hours 
at  least  will  bring  rain,  and  usually  it  is  not  so 
long  before  the  clouds  begin  to  drift  inland 
from  the  sea.  It  is  sometimes  thought  that 
there  is  a  storm  on  the  ocean,  and  that  it  has 
been  travelling  landward  for  hundreds  of  miles. 
Occasionally  that  is  the  case,  but  more  often 
the  clouds  and  rain  are  formed  along  our  own 
coast,  and  in  this  way  :  The  sea  is  much  warmer 
than  the  land,  especially  in  the  Gulf  Stream 
region.  Vast  bodies  of  moist  air  overhanging 
it  are  driven  in  upon  the  land  by  the  eastern 
winds.  This  land  is  ice-locked  and  very  cold. 


BAIN   AND   SNOW 


91 


As  soon  as  the  warm  air  of  the  sea  meets  the 
cold  air  of  the  land  a  chilling-down  process  be- 
gins and  condensation  into  clouds  is  the  result. 
The  coast  is  the  line  of  condensation,  and  as 
these  clouds  move  into  the  cold  interior  their 
vapor-carrying  capacity  grows  less  and  less  un- 
til finally  rain  is  precipitated. 

Another  illustration  of  cloud  and  rain  mak- 
ing is  often  seen  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
when  a  warm  air  blowing  from  the  south 
meets  a  cold  air  blowing  from  the  west.  The 
warm  air  is  forced  up  and  over  the  cold  air, 
clouds  are  formed  all  along  the  line  of  con- 
tact, and  heavy  rain  is  not  the  unusual  result. 
Again,  a  sirocco  blowing  up  from  the  south 
across  the  Adriatic  will  make  the  cool  stones  in 
the  pavement  of  the  Piazza  San  Marco  at  Ven- 
ice "sweat ;"  and  when  this  sirocco  meets  the 
Southern  Alps  and  is  tilted  up  into  the  cold 
snow  regions  of  the  peaks,  condensation,  clouds, 
and  rain  follow. 

Just  how  the  rain-drop  is  formed  seems  not 
better  known  than  the  constitution  of  the 
spherule  of  moisture  in  the  cloud.  A  recently 
advanced  theory  would  seem  to  argue  that 
moisture  forms  upon  and  about  the  tiny  dust- 
particle  in  the  air,  using  the  particle  as  a  nu- 


92 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


clens,  so  to  speak,  and  that  by  augmented  con- 
densation the  spherule  gradually  grows  to  a 
rain-drop.  Once  formed,  the  drop  has  about 
it  an  elastic  skin  or  envelope  that  prevents  it 
from  breaking  unless  pressed  or  struck  by  some 
body.  Oftentimes  it  preserves  its  form  against 
sharp  shocks,  as  we  may  test  by  shaking  the 
dewdrops  on  flowers,  or  observing  the  drops 
from  a  fountain  thafc  run  across  the  surface  of 
the  water  like  pearls  for  some  distance  before 
coalescing  with  the  main  body.  In  the  air  the 
rain-drop  is  always  perfectly  round,  as  the 
camera  shows  us,  even  if  it  were  not  a  necessity 
of  that  phenomenon,  the  rainbow. 

The  size  of  the  drop  is  doubtless  dependent 
upon  the  amount  of  surplus  moisture  in  the 
cloud.  This  in  turn  is  dependent  upon  the 
temperature  of  the  air  and  the  extent  to  which 
this  temperature  has  been  reduced.  Doubtless, 
too,  the  suddenness  of  condensation  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  thp  size ;  and  besides  that  the 
drop  in  falling  probably  unites  with  other 
drops,  somewhat  as  globules  of  mercury  co- 
alesce, or  a  rain-drop  running  down  a  window- 
pane  gathers  other  drops  in  its  downward 
course.  That  the  temperature  has  much  to  do 
with  the  quantity  of  vapor  in  the  cloud,  and 


KAIN   AND   SNOW 


consequently  the  size  of  the  drop,  we  may  be- 
lieve when  we  consider  how  small  are  the  rain- 
drops in  winter  and  how  large  they  are  in 
summer.  The  first  ones  falling  in  a  thunder- 
shower,  for  instance,  are  unusually  large.  Pos- 
sibly the  size  is  caused  by  the  outer  edge  of  a 
heavily  saturated  cloud  being  driven  by  the 
wind  against  cold  air  and  swift  condensation 
following  the  meeting  ;  or  it  may  be  that  the 
heavy  drops  fall  from  a  very  high  cloud  and 
coalesce  with  others  in  falling.  It  is  usually 
only  the  first-coming  clouds  that  cast  the  heavy 
drops,  and  after  the  first  dash  they  grow  finer, 
smaller,  and  more  numerous. 

A  thunder-storm  comes  and  goes  quickly, 
the  moisture  being  in  measure  localized.  Both 
its  coming  and  its  going  present  interesting, 
sometimes  fantastic,  forms  of  clouds  that  are 
continually  torn,  scattered  and  reunited  by  the 
drive  forward  of  the  wind.  Usually  the  cloud 
is  a  thick  one,  and  in  its  lowest  part  is  dark, 
becoming  lighter  in  its  main  body,  and  if  it  is 
a  towering,  cumulus  cloud,  its  upper  peaks  may 
sometimes  be  seen  before  or  after  the  storm, 
shining  white  in  the  sunlight.  Beautiful  by 
day,  all  the  forms  of  thunder-clouds  are  even 
more  beautiful  by  night,  when  lightning  flashes 


94 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


illuminate  them.  Then  they  have  a  pale- 
bluish  coloring,  the  light-and-shade  upon  them 
is  clear-cut,  and  the  feeling  of  massive  form  is 
convincingly  brought  home  to  us.  The  great, 
dark  clouds  lying  underneath  seem  but  the  flat 
pedestals  of  the  white  peaks  and  spurs  that  far 
up  the  zenith  seem  to  tower  and  rock  slowly 
like  icebergs  on  a  stormy  sea.  At  other  times 
the  clouds  seem  softer  and  roll  upward  in  bil- 
lows and  wreaths — great  vapory  masses  of  blue- 
white  that  boil  and  seethe  with  the  force  of  the 
winds.  And  how  the  currents  of  lightning 
pass  through  these  heavy  clouds  without  pro- 
ducing the  slightest  disturbing  effect  upon 
them !  If  lightning  were  shaped  like  the 
classic  bolt  of  Zeus,  or  zig-zagged  and  raw- 
edged,  as  popularly  depicted,  it  might  disrupt 
even  cloud  forms ;  but  instead  of  that  it  runs 
in  streams  and  rivulets,  and  when  seen  in  pho- 
tograph it  often  looks  like  an  outlined  map  of 
the  Nile,  with  its  many  mouths  leading  to  the 
Mediterranean. 

Another  accompaniment  of  the  thunder- 
shower  is  the  fringe  of  rain  that  may  be  seen 
trailing  from  the  clouds  as  the  shower  passes  to 
one  side  of  us.  This  fringe  waves  slightly  with 
the  wind,  and  when  seen  at  a  distance  looks  as 


KAIN   AND   SNOW 


though  it  did  not  reach  to  the  ground.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  some  precipitations  never  do 
fall  to  earth.  They  are  evaporated  in  mid-air 
and  returned  to  the  sky.  The  travel  of  the 
rain-fringe  across  the  country,  veiling  and 
often  obscuring  the  hills  and  meadows,  is  most 
interesting  to  watch  as  it  shifts  its  form,  color, 
and  density,  and  darkens  the  green  of  the 
country  over  which  it  passes.  It  changes  more 
frequently  than  we  think,  and  is  sometimes 
temporarily  lost  before  our  eyes,  only  to  reap- 
pear again  with  startling  brilliancy  when  struck 
by  a  chance  sun-shaft.  When  the  shower 
comes  our  way,  the  clouds  themselves  seem  to 
undergo  changes  as  soon  as  the  rain  begins  to 
fall  from  them.  The  lumpy  roll  breaks  and 
flattens  in  strata,  or  else  it  trails  down  in  long, 
shaggy  points.  The  whole  landscape  darkens 
as  the  shower  approaches,  the  clouds  become 
obscured,  the  trees  blurred,  and  presently  we 
are  in  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  rain  through 
which  we  can  perhaps  see  not  more  than  a  few 
hundred  feet.  When  the  shower  is  passing 
away,  everything  is,  of  course,  reversed.  The 
light  increases,  and  often  the  vanishing  rain 
clouds  struck  by  the  sun,  gleam  as  frost-white 
as  the  castle-clouds  of  a  summer  afternoon. 


96 


NATURE  FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


With  the  sun  shining  after  a  thunder-storm, 
and  the  light  striking  upon  the  clouds  heyond  us, 
comes  one  of  the  most  noticeable  beauties  of  the 
sky,  the  rainbow.  It  is  caused  by  the  drops  of 
water  in  the  air  becoming  prisms  of  light  and 
casting  the  spectrum  colors.  A  thin  sheet  of 
these  falling  drops  is  struck  obliquely  by  the 
sun's  rays,  and  each  drop  has  light  entering  the 
upper  portion  of  it,  and  undergoing  two  refrac- 
tions and  one  reflection.  The  exact  scientific 
explanation  of  the  arch  of  light,  and  how  it 
casts  the  colors  of  the  spectrum,  is  foreign  to 
the  present  purpose.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
the  arch  is  seen  only  when  sunlight  strikes 
falling  rain  obliquely,  and  that  it  shows  the 
colors  of  the  spectrum,  beginning  with  red  on 
the  outside.  The  secondary  or  upper  bow  is 
like  the  first,  only  fainter,  owing  to  a  double 
reflection  within  the  drops,  and  with  the  colors 
reversed — that  is,  the  violet  is  on  the  outside. 
The  bow  caused  by  the  moon  is  much  fainter 
than  that  caused  by  the  sun,  and  is  not  fre- 
quently seen.  It  rarely  shows  distinct  colors, 
and  is  most  commonly  seen  as  a  pale  gleam  of 
white  or  yellow  light. 

The  three-days'  storm  of  rain,  common  to  all 
temperate  climates,  is  quite  a  different  affair 


BAIN   AND   SNOW 


97 


from  the  thunder-storm.  It  begins  with  no 
such  frowning  front,  but  has  infinitely  more  en- 
durance because  it  is  not  localized.  The  clouds 
are  spread  over  a  large  area  of  sky  and  they 
gather  themselves  together  slowly  at  first. 
When  condensation  sets  in  and  rain  begins 
to  fall  it  is  slight,  almost  like  a  Scotch  mist. 
But  it  soon  gains  in  power,  the  wind  rises,  and 
the  small  rain-drops  begin  to  drive  toward  the 
earth  with  great  swiftness  and  force.  The 
heavy  drops  of  the  thunder-shower,  falling 
a  long  distance  from  high  clouds,  and  falling 
straight,  seem  to  have  much  less  striking  power 
than  the  smaller  drops  driven  diagonally  by  the 
wind.  Nor  is  the  wave  of  a  rain-fringe  from  a 
thunder-shower  anything  like  so  violent  as  the 
sheet  of  driving  rain  in  the  three  days'  storm. 
The  latter  shakes  banner-like  in  the  wind  as 
though  it  were  a  veritable  sheet  held  down  from 
above,  or  it  rolls  in  swift-moving  undulations 
across  the  sky  like  the  wavy  light-flashes  of  the 
aurora. 

But  there  is  little  in  the  long  storm  to  be  ad- 
mired or  enjoyed  unless  we  ourselves  happen  to 
be  in  a  tempestuous  mood.  The  domed  sky 
is  shut  out,  the  clouds  make  a  flat,  lead-colored 
roof  overhead,  or  else  they  form  in  gray  billows 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


like  an  inverted  sea  in  storm.  Color  is  gone 
save  the  vast  monotone  of  gray,  and  form  is  al- 
most obliterated  except  in  the  lines  of  falling 
rain.  The  splash  and  beat  of  gusts  upon  the 
roof  and  the  window-pane,  the  moaning  and 
raving  of  the  wind,  are  rather  dreary  ;  and  with- 
out, everything  is  even  more  dismal.  Decidedly 
the  best  place  is  by  an  open  fire  with  a  book  in 
one's  hand.  When,  however,  the  rain  has  passed, 
and  the  sun  is  once  more  seen,  we  have  an  irre- 
pressible desire  to  come  out  from  hiding,  like 
the  birds,  and  see  what  the  rain  has  done  for  the 
world  about  us.  The  freshness  of  nature,  the 
smell  of  the  ground,  the  clearness  of  the  air,  the 
brightness  of  the  vegetation — the  feeling  as 
though  the  earth  had  had  a  bath  and  was  waking, 
clean  and  refreshed — are  omnipresent.  Color, 
too,  seems  revivified.  The  geranium  and  the 
rose  are  more  brilliant,  the  grass  greener,  the 
trees  more  luminous,  and  overhead  the  blue  sky 
is  deeper  in  its  coloring  and  light  than  possibly 
we  have  ever  noticed  before. 

This  is  all  more  marked  in  the  country  than 
in  the  city.  The  only  noticeable  thing  about 
rain  in  the  city  is  that  it  washes  down  the  build- 
ings and  cleans  up  the  streets.  The  patches 
of  grass  and  the  trees  in  the  parks  do  not  seem 


RAIN   AND   SNOW 


99 


to  respond  to  it  so  quickly  as  those  on  the  lawns 
and  fields  out  of  town.  This  may  be  imagination 
with  the  observer,  and  yet  it  is  well  known  that 
the  rain  which  falls  in  the  city  is  not  the  same 
rain  as  that  which  falls  in  the  country,  though 
both  precipitations  may  come  from  the  one 
cloud.  City  rain  is  fouled  by  passing  through 
smoke,  dust,  and  gases.  It  gathers  sulphuric 
acid,  which  corrodes  metal,  paint,  and  iron,  and 
certainly  does  not  help  vegetation.  The  coun- 
try rain  is  always  purer  because  falling  through 
a  clearer  air. 

Precipitation  from  the  clouds  usually  takes 
the  form  of  rain  and  hail  in  the  summer,  sleet 
in  the  spring,  and  snow  or  frozen  ice-crystals  in 
the  winter.  They  are  all  easy  to  account  for  as 
regards  their  forms  except  hail,  which  is  frozen 
rain  perhaps,  but  a  satisfactory  explanation  of 
how  it  is  formed  and  frozen  has  not  yet  been 
offered.  Hail  falls  in  hot,  sultry  weather  and 
with  a  thunder-storm.  For  that  reason  it  is  sus- 
pected that  it  has  to  do  with  electricity  or  is 
caused  by  it.  It  would  seem  at  first  blush  as 
though  those  heavy  drops  of  rain,  which  have 
been  spoken  of  as  the  first  to  fall  from  the  thun- 
der-cloud, were  sometimes  congealed  to  ice  and 
united  to  other  drops  in  the  congealing  proc- 


100 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


ess,  and  that  hail  was  made  in  that  way.  The 
two  precipitations,  one  in  rain  and  one  in  hail, 
correspond  in  time,  place,  and  circumstance,  and 
apparently  are  identical  with  one  another ;  but 
the  perplexing  question  arises,  How  does  hail 
freeze  in  its  peculiar  form  ?  If  a  rain-drop  fall- 
ing from  a  warm  cloud  should  pass  through  a 
very  cold  current  on  its  way  earthward,  it  would 
be  frozen  into  transparent  ice  ;  but  that  is 
not  the  make-up  of  the  hail-stone.  The  cen- 
tre of  the  stone  is  opaque,  milky,  cloudy,  as 
though  it  were  a  tiny,  frozen  snow-ball ;  and 
around  this  centre  are  usually  thin,  concentric 
layers  of  ice  and  snow  formed  like  the  layers 
of  an  onion.  From  its  appearance  one  might 
say  that  it  was  a  frozen  particle  whirled  around 
through  rain  and  ice  clouds,  gathering  bulk  to 
itself  by  contact,  much  like  a  snow-ball  rolling 
down  hill  on  a  moist,  winter  day. 

The  theory  has  been  advanced  that  the  rain- 
drop is  caught  up  by  powerful,  ascending  cur- 
rents and  carried  to  regions  of  snow  and  cold, 
and  afterward  allowed  by  the  declining  winds  to 
fall  back  to  earth  ;  but  if  so,  how  does  it  arrange 
to  get  back  in  time  to  form  the  first  fall  from  a 
thunder  cloud  ?  It  is  more  probable  perhaps 
that  the  top  of  the  thunder  cloud  reaches  up 


RAIN   AND   SNOW 


101 


into  the  snow  regions  of  the  air,  and  inat  pre- 
cipitation falling  from  it  in  the  shape  of  snow 
gathers  bulk  to  itself  in  descending  until,  pass- 
ing through  the  rain  region,  it  adds  an  outer  coat 
of  ice.  The  hail-stone  certainly  falls  a  long  dis- 
tance, as  we  may  know  from  its  striking  power, 
but  whence  it  falls,  and  just  hoiv  it  is  formed,  the 
meteorologists  have  not  yet  definitely  told  us. 

The  hail-stone  is  usually  not  larger  than  a 
cherry,  though  in  description  it  is  sometimes 
"  as  large  as  a  hen's  egg  ; "  and  it  has  been  seen 
as  large  as  a  good-sized  apple,  but  not  in  the 
temperate  zones.  It  is  elastic,  and  the  bounce 
of  hail  from  the  walk  or  lawn  is  a  commonly 
observed  fact.  Sometimes  with  wind  it  drives 
diagonally  to  the  earth,  but  more  frequently  it 
falls  like  the  heavy  drops  of  the  thunder- 
shower.  Usually  there  is  nothing  marked 
about  its  color.  It  is  lighter  in  tone  than  rain, 
and  when  falling  through  the  air  shows  blue- 
white.  At  times  a  very  beautiful  effect  is  pro- 
duced during  sun-showers  by  the  sun's  rays 
flashing  npon  the  stones  as  they  fall.  They 
are  then  dazzling  opal-white,  and  quite  dif- 
ferent from  the  rain-drops,  which  fall  through 
sunlight  like  glittering  diamonds.  Occasional- 
ly one  may  see  a  hail-storm  turned  into  some- 


102 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


thing  like  a  rain  of  fiery  red  or  yellow  pebbles, 
by  having  the  shower  between  him  and  a  red  or 
yellow  sunset ;  but  this  effect  is  of  rare  ob- 
servance. 

Snow  is  the  excess  vapor  in  the  air  condensed 
into  spicules  of  ice.  It  forms  whenever  the 
temperature  is  below  freezing,  and  many  are 
the  forms  of  flakes  produced  by  the  crystal- 
lizing process.  When  the  fall  is  light  and 
feathery,  owing  to  a  low  temperature,  countless 
variations  of  the  six-pointed  star  may  be  seen 
on  a  dark  ground,  such  as  a  coat-sleeve.  When 
the  temperature  is  higher  there  is  a  tendency 
toward  agglomeration,  or  the  union  of  many 
flakes  into  one.  Snow  falling  from  a  cold  into 
a  warm  stratum  of  air  is  softened  around  the 
edges,  and  we  have  what  is  called  a  "wet" 
snow — that  is,  a  snow  containing  considerable 
moisture  and  in  form  large  and  fluffy.  The  re- 
verse of  this  takes  place  when  the  snow  is  fall- 
ing from  a  cloud  warmer  than  the  temperature 
of  the  lower  air.  Then  we  have  a  hard,  round 
snow,  sometimes  called  "ball  "  snow.  It  would 
seem  to  be  hardened  and  compacted  by  passing 
through  the  colder,  lower  air  ;  and  when  it 
reaches  the  earth  its  form  is  that  of  the  fine 
snow  that  falls  in  the  long,  cold  storms  of  winter. 


BAIN   AND   SNOW 


103 


In  the  highest  clouds  snow  is  always  a  possi- 
ble and  often  a  necessary  result  of  condensation. 
When  it  falls  it  frequently  melts  into  rain  in 
passing  through  the  warmer  and  lower  air. 
The  storm  that  covers  the  top  of  Mt.  Blanc  with 
snow  falls  as  rain  in  the  valley  of  Chamonix. 
Many  of  the  high  mountains  have  their  snow- 
line  above  which  rain  is  not  known,  and  we  hear 
their  peaks  spoken  of  as  being  covered  with 
"eternal  snow."  The  words  are  not  accurate, 
to  be  sure,  for  snow  even  on  mountain-tops  is 
continually  melting  and  passing  away  into  gla- 
ciers to  be  replenished  by  new  falls  ;  but  the  de- 
scription is  true  enough  in  the  sense  that  the 
peaks  are  always  snow-capped. 

At  the  beginning  of  a  snow-storm  the  flakes 
are  few  and  large,  and  they  settle  to  the  earth 
like  eider-down  or  thistle-spray.  Nothing  can 
exceed  the  gentleness  of  these  first-falling  flakes. 
They  whirl  and  float  and  hover  and  fall  so  soft- 
ly, that  not  a  leaf  or  grass-blade  is  stirred  ;  and 
they  melt  into  the  smooth  surface  of  the  lake 
without  making  the  slightest  visible  impression. 
And  how  absolute  the  silence  of  their  fall  ! 
One  by  one  they  gather  together  on  the  earth 
without  a  sound,  and  in  the  morning  when  the 
children  look  out  of  the  window  they  are  sur- 


104 


NATURE  FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


prised  to  see  the  white  fairy-land,  and  they  had 
no  intimation  whatever  of  its  making.  During 
the  day,  if  the  storm  increases,  the  flakes  are 
likely  to  grow  smaller  and  harder — the  fall  be- 
ing much  like  the  smaller  rain  that  follows  the 
few  large  premonitory  drops.  With  a  high 
wind  the  snow  drives  almost  horizontally  at 
times,  and  when  the  wind  is  in  gusts  the  snow- 
sheet  waves  more  lightly  and  easily  than  the 
corresponding  rain-sheet. 

In  Northern  countries  the  light  snow  driven 
by  high  gales  often  results  in  what  is  called  a 
"  blizzard  " — something  almost  impossible  in 
the  region  of  New  York,  though  the  name  has 
been  and  is  frequently  applied  to  every  severe 
snow-storm.  A  blizzard  proper,  such  as  they 
have  occasionally  in  Dakota,  brings  with  it  a  fine, 
driving  snow  that  strikes  the  face  like  a  shower 
of  sand,  stinging,  cutting,  and  almost  blinding 
one.  The  temperature  during  its  prevalence  is 
usually  so  low  that  there  is  little  or  no  moisture 
in  the  air,  and  the  blowing  of  the  wind  does  not 
allow  the  snow  to  catch  and  lie  upon  the  ground 
except  in  sheltered  places.  Gusts  and  eddies 
are  continually  swirling  great  sheets  of  it 
through  the  air.  If  the  ground  was  previously 
covered  with  snow,  the  low  temperature  has 


RAIN  AND  SNOW 


105 


possibly  prevented  it  from  having  anything  like 
a  crust  upon  it,  and  the  first  sweep  of  wind 
raises  its  light  particles  in  the  air  to  join  the 
new-comers.  The  total  result  is  blinding  and 
confusing  to  the  wayfarer.  The  air  is  full  of 
flashing,  dashing  flakes,  and  one  can  see  no 
farther  in  the  maze  than  in  a  dense  fog — often 
not  so  far.  All  landmarks,  roadways,  and  trails 
are  obscured  in  a  few  minutes,  and  people  per- 
ish in  such  storms  through  losing  their  way  and 
being  overcome  by  the  cold,  the  wind,  and  the 
driving  snow. 

Once  fallen,  a  mantle  of  snow  produces  the 
most  decided  change  in  the  appearance  of  the 
earth,  excepting  the  change  from  night  to  day, 
of  which  we  have  knowledge.  The  earth  is 
naturally  a  light-absorber.  It  drinks  in  sun- 
light and  reflects  just  as  little  as  possible,  so  that 
its  general  appearance  is  comparatively  dark, 
with  sheets  of  water  showing  here  and  there  as 
spots  of  white.  "When  snow  covers  the  ground 
the  appearance  is  reversed,  and  such  objects  as 
trees  and  bare  rocks  appear  merely  as  spots  and 
patches  of  dark  upon  the  white.  The  inten- 
sity of  this  white  is  common  knowledge.  It  is 
a  bluish- white  and  much  lighter  than  the  clouds 
casting  it  forth.  This  is  largely  for  a  reason 


106 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


already  given.  That  is,  to  repeat  it,  looking 
up  we  see  the  shadows  of  countless  cloud-par- 
ticles ;  looking  down  we  see  light  reflected  from 
countless  snow-surfaces. 

But  the  intensity  of  the  white  is  not  wholly 
explained  by  the  difference  between  reflected 
and  shadowed  light.  There  is  another  reason 
for  its  whiteness,  and  perhaps  it  is  not  uninter- 
esting to  know  that  if  the  new,  fine  snow  is  ex- 
amined under  a  magnifying  glass  each  separate 
flake  will  be  found  to  disperse  as  well  as  to 
reflect  light,  and  everyone  of  them  will  show 
prismatic  edges  casting  the  rainbow  colors. 
These  colors  are  the  component  parts  of  light — 
light  disintegrated,  in  fact.  The  tiny  prisms 
scatter  the  light  into  colors,  but  the  mass  of 
them  taken  together  reunite  the  colors  into 
light.  It  has  long  been  known  in  painting  that 
small  stipplings  of  red,  yellow,  and  blue,  placed 
close  together,  will  throw  out  more  light  than 
a  pure  white  ground.  Light  recomposed  from 
colors  is  stronger  than  light  reflected.  It  is 
this  principle,  practically  demonstrated  by  nat- 
ure, that  lends  something  of  peculiar  brilliancy 
to  the  newly  fallen  snow.  And  how  brilliant, 
how  dazzling  is  that  newly  fallen  snow  onlj 
those  know  who  have  seen  it  in  very  cold  conn- 


KAIN   AND   SNOW 


107 


tries,  where  vapor  is  a  practical  impossibility 
and  only  the  ice-  or  snow-crystal  exists.  In 
such  lands  the  covering  of  the  earth  glitters 
as  though  thickly  sprinkled  with  diamond  dust, 
and  the  mist  rising  from  swift-running  streams 
is  frozen  into  hoar-frost  that  drifts  in  the 
air,  sparkling  in  the  sharp  sun-light.  It  is 
flash  and  gleam  from  every  point  of  view  as 
though  a  dozen  suns  were  in  the  sky  and  all 
were  flaming  brightly. 

This  splendor  is  greatly  modified  in  the  re- 
gions where  the  snow  is  moist  and  forms  in 
heavy  masses,  loading  the  branches  of  the 
pine  and  the  spruce,  muffling  the  eaves  and 
chimneys  of  the  houses,  and  piling  up  in  pyra- 
mids on  the  tops  of  the  gate-posts.  The  bril- 
liancy is  pronounced  for  only  a  few  hours. 
Under  the  sun  and  its  warmth  the  crystals  lose 
their  sharp  angles  and  melt  down  into  ice-par- 
ticles, the  pyramids  soon  slip  from  the  gate- 
posts, and  the  pine,  shaking  its  long  branches  in 
the  breeze,  throws  its  burden  of  snow  from  it. 
The  purity  and  serenity  of  the  morning  follow- 
ing such  a  snow-fall,  when  the  sun  is  up  and 
we  are  out  walking  the  fields  and  woods  through 
the  still  whiteness,  are  not  lost  upon  us.  We 
all  feel  the  solemn  beauty  of  the  scene,  the  hush 


Brilliancy 
of  mow. 


108 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


of  the  earth,  the  dark  ranks  of  trees,  the  gleam 
of  the  cold  sky,  the  glitter  of  the  snow  lying  so 
fluffily  upon  earth  and  tree  and  hill  and  house- 
top. How  calm  and  pure  it  seems  !  How  im- 
pressive it  is,  too,  under  moonlight,  with  the 
hills  stretching  far  away  in  their  white,  heaving 
mantle,  the  frozen  woods  standing  up  so  darkly 
along  the  night  horizon,  the  stars  glistening  in 
their  violet  depths,  and  over  all  the  great  si- 
lence of  the  sky  ! 

And  what  a  multitude  of  sharp  angles,  harsh 
forms,  and  bleak  colors  are  hidden  under  the 
muffling  of  snow !  The  ragged  mound,  the 
rough  cornfield,  the  tumbled  meadow,  the  bushy 
foot-hills  of  the  mountains  are  smoothed  out, 
and  evened  over,  and  cast  in  new  forms. 
Everywhere  there  are  flowing,  rounded  lines 
running  hither  and  thither  to  meet  other 
lines,  intertwining  and  uniting  in  graceful  and 
rhythmic  combinations.  In  the  open  fields, 
where  the  wind  has  been  at  work,  the  snow  may 
be  cast  in  rolls,  like  the  long  swells  of  a  smooth 
sea ;  and  when  the  sun  is  low  these  swells  show 
pink  light  on  their  crests  and  blue  shadows 
in  their  hollows — shadows  even  more  delicate 
and  tender  in  hue  than  those  cast  upon  water. 
Above  the  open  fields  even  the  mountain-lines 


RAIN   AND   SNOW 


109 


against  the  sky  are  softened  by  the  snow ;  and 
the  ragged  promontories,  smoothed  into  heav- 
ing mounds  of  white,  glow  with  a  pinkish  hue 
under  the  sunlight  and  at  evening  turn  to  cold 
purple. 

And  how  sharp  is  the  contrast  where  the 
river  runs  darkly  flashing  through  banks  of 
snow  that  come  down  and  meet  the  water's  edge  ! 
It  is  a  picture  in  black-and-white.  The  bend 
and  sweep  of  the  lines  in  the  banks  are  clear- 
cut  and  sharp,  defining  on  either  side  the  flow 
in  and  out  of  the  most  graceful  thing  in  the 
world— running  water.  There  is  nothing  more 
rhythmical  than  the  curves  made  by  water,  and 
the  flowing  river  in  winter  is  emphasized  and 
intensified  by  its  white  borders.  Sometimes  it 
happens  that  the  stream  is  frozen  with  clear  ice, 
and  then  from  a  high  point  like  a  bridge,  when 
the  wind  is  blowing,  one  may  see  little  rivulets 
and  streams  of  snow  running  over  the  top  of 
the  ice,  following  channels,  swirling  and  eddy- 
ing almost  like  the  stream  itself  except  that  the 
motion  is  much  faster  and  more  serpentine. 
Very  graceful  are  these  little  currents  of  snow. 
They  may  be  seen  again  chasing,  whirling,  and 
drifting  on  the  crusted  and  frozen  fields,  but 
not  so  readily  as  upon  a  dark  background  of 


flO 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


ice.  The  winding  courses  they  follow  and  the 
beautiful  forms  of  snow-drifts  into  which  they 
finally  resolve  themselves,  are  distinct  features 
of  the  snow-landscape. 

The  early  days  of  March  when  the  snow  is 
beginning  to  melt,  when  the  rocks  on  the  hill- 
side heave  out  of  the  white,  and  odd  patches  of 
ground  show  dull  gray  or  brown,  are  usually 
considered  the  dreary  days  of  the  year.  Most 
people  declare  the  country  "stupid"  at  this 
time  and  house  themselves  in  cities  if  they  can  ; 
but  to  some  nature-lovers  it  is  perhaps  the  most 
interesting  season  of  all.  The  snow  on  the  side- 
hill  still  lingers ;  but  the  meadows  are  bare, 
the  brooks  are  swollen,  the  ice  is  gorged  in 
the  river,  the  valleys  are  shining  with  pools 
of  water.  The  skeleton  of  nature  is  pushing 
through  its  winter  mantle  at  every  point ;  but 
if  we  look  at  it  with  appreciative  eyes  we  shall 
find  the  hills  and  the  rocks  and  the  bare  trees 
beautiful  as  outlines  merely — beautiful  in  their 
rugged,  broken  angles  and  their  traceries  of 
line  against  the  snow  or  sky.  Besides,  there 
is  some  little  color  noticeable  all  through  the 
winter  in  the  red  stems  of  the  maples  and  the 
birch,  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  swamp  bushes. 
This  color  begins  to  heighten  in  March  and 


BAIN  AND   SNOW 


111 


with  it  comes  the  sense  or  feeling  of  stirring 
life.  It  is  in  the  very  air.  Nature  is  turning 
as  though  anxious  to  rouse  from  slumber.  The 
evidence  of  life  is  not  great,  but  we  feel  under 
stillness,  coldness,  and  bareness  a  potential 
power.  The  great  oaks  and  chestnuts  that 
stand  high  up  on  the  mountain,  their  trunks 
showing  against  snow  -  banks,  their  branches 
against  the  sky,  will  soon  be  turning  green,  and 
the  meadows  and  swales  of  the  valley  will  glow 
with  new  life  and  color. 

Perhaps  just  at  this  time,  when  nature  has 
not  yet  started  out  of  winter,  there  comes  a  late 
snow-storm  which  turns  to  rain,  covering  the 
limbs  of  the  trees  with  ice  and  putting  a  crystal 
coating  upon  the  earth.  Then  what  a  spectacle 
we  see  the  next  morning,  with  all  the  world  glit- 
tering like  spun  glass  under  the  rays  of  the  sun ! 
It  is  a  brilliant  sight,  and  at  times  a  most  aston- 
ishing one  in  color.  For,  if  we  can  get  the  ice- 
bound trees  between  us  and  the  sun  they  will 
take  on  any  color  that  the  sun  or  sky  may  show. 
Occasionally,  with  a  red  sunset,  a  whole  grove  of 
trees  will  look  to  be  on  fire,  and  under  a  yellow 
sunset  the  same  grove  of  trees  will  appear  of  the 
most  brilliant  topaz  hue.  It  is  not  unlike  a 
similar  effect  seen  in  falling  hail. 


112 


NATUBE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


The  awa- 
kening of 
nature. 


The  icy  landscape  is  not  a  sight  of  any  long 
duration.  The  sun  soon  melts  the  ice,  the 
trees  rock  in  the  wind,  and  the  glassy  covering 
slips  and  rattles  upon  the  frozen  ground.  When 
once  nature  begins  to  move,  it  is  not  easy  for 
cold  winds  and  blustering  sleet  to  stop  it.  The 
grass  starts  under  the  snow,  the  early  plants 
begin  to  stir,  the  stems  and  buds  grow  redder  ; 
and  when  the  last  patch  of  dirty  white  in  the 
deep  gulch  among  the  bowlders  is  slipping  and 
melting  away,  the  trees  above  it  are  perhaps  al- 
ready showing  a  fuzzy,  muffled  look,  the  moss  on 
the  bowlders  has  shot  its  pale,  pin-like  points  of 
green  upward  toward  the  sun,  and  the  grass 
grows  in  thick  tufts  where  the  brook  winds 
through  the  meadow. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   OPEN    SEA 

ONE'S  first  impression  of  the  open  sea,  gained 
from  a  steamer's  deck,  is  usually  not  too  happy. 
The  mind  is  distracted  or  it  is  dull,  even  if  the 
body  be  not  racked,  and  a  sorry  conclusion  about 
the  sea  is  a  common  result.  It  is  a  dreary  waste 
of  waters.  The  horizon  rim  makes  a  perfect  circle 
about  one,  the  sky  is  a  great  arch  overhead,  and 
there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  but  an  occasional 
school  of  porpoises  or  the  misty  form  of  some 
sailing  craft  straining  along  the  sky-line. 

The  nouveau  thinks  the  whole  affair  monoto- 
nous and,  indeed,  at  first  glance  variety  does 
seem  lacking.  Yet  in  reality  there  is  not  an 
hour  when  the  wind  does  not  shift  the  form  of 
the  waves,  not  an  hour  when  the  light  and  color 
of  the  water  are  not  changing,  not  an  hour  from 
dawn  to  dawn  when  the  uneasy,  faceted  surface 
is  not  throwing  back  reflections  of  the  sky  in  a 
thousand  variegated  hues.  The  sea  and  the  sky 
are  always  changing.  What  appears  at  first  a 
113 


Firtt  im 
pretsi&n! 


changes. 


114 


NATURE  FOR   ITS   OWN  SAKE 


monotony  is,  in  fact,  an  unending  diversity. 
Time  was  doubtless  in  the  infancy  of  the  earth 
when  the  beds  of  the  oceans  were  filled  with 
pestilent  gases  and  vapors,  and  time  may  be 
in  the  earth's  old  age  when  the  seas  will  be 
great  frozen  depths  of  ice  ;  but  to-day  they  are 
in  their  prime,  in  the  heyday  of  their  glory, 
strong  in  mass  and  movement,  overwhelming 
in  extent  and  power,  splendid  in  color  and  light. 
Water  at  rest,  like  the  air,  would  seem  at  first 
blush  to  be  quite  formless.  It  is  the  flat,  even- 
filling  of  a  hollow.  Its  positive  forms  are  shown 
only  when  it  is  agitated  by  wind,  or  pushed  in 
tides  and  currents,  or  seeking  its  level  in  lower 
places.  There  are  currents  in  the  sea,  but 
they  are  hardly  recognizable  in  the  open  water 
except  by  their  color.  Their  forms  are  not 
definitely  marked — not  even  that  of  the  Gulf 
Stream— though  they  have  certain  movements, 
widths,  and  lengths,  that  are  well  known  to  the 
navigator.  These  currents  flowing  through  the 
main  body  of  the  ocean  have  always  called  up 
an  analogy  or  a  likeness  to  human  physiology. 
For  they  seem  like  sea  arteries  in  their  move- 
ments ;  and  the  tides  rising  and  falling  liken 
human  lungs  respiring.  We  are,  through  such 
resemblances,  often  led  in  a  romantic  way  to 


THE   OPEN   SEA 


imagine  vain  things  about  the  sea;  and  more 
than  once  writers  have  pictured  it  as  a  living 
body  —  a  wrinkled  monster  writhing  in  a 
cramped  bed  from  which  there  is  no  escape. 
And  the  waves  as  they  come  up  the  rocky  coast, 
flinging  long  arms  upward  to  grapple  with  the 
rocks,  have  been  likened  to  companies  and 
legions  of  the  deep  sent  to  battle  against  the 
rocky  barriers — companies  utterly  inexhaust- 
ible and  gaining  vantage  ground  always  by 
wearing  out  their  opponent.  There  is  strife 
between  land  and  sea,  to  be  sure,  but  it  is  the 
warfare  of  unthinking  elements  and  there  is 
no  enmity  about  it  or  in  it.  Each  side  is 
obeying  the  law  of  its  nature  without  knowing 
why  or  wherefore.  It  is  continuous  strife,  too. 
For  the  so-called  legions  of  the  sea  are  always 
marching.  The  "flat  sea"  is  a  misnomer. 
There  is  no  such  thing.  At  times  the  surface 
is  unruffled,  light  and  color  are  thrown  back 
from  it  as  from  a  burnished  shield,  but  the 
shield  is  never  motionless.  Even  in  the  tropics, 
where  the  surface  may  be  unbroken  for  days  at  a 
time,  there  is  always  the  great,  heaving  "swell" 
underneath.  The  restlessness  of  the  sea  is  un- 
ceasing. 
When  the  wind  is  rising  over  an  unbroken 


116 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


sea-surface  it  makes  itself  apparent  at  first  in 
little  catches  or  quivers  on  the  water.  The  wind 
itself  comes  in  fitful  puffs  and  squalls,  and  it  is 
these  little  inequalities  of  wind-pressure  that 
make  possible  the  breaking  of  the  surface  at 
the  start.  As  the  wind  increases  in  force  the 
surface  is  covered  with  small,  facet-like  waves 
that  flash  light  and  color  with  great  brilliancy. 
With  a  stronger  wind  we  have  what  is  called  a 
"  chop  sea,"  in  which  waves  scurry  hither  and 
thither,  driven  by  local  gusts,  crossing  and 
breaking  upon  each  other  in  small  dashes  of 
foam.  If  the  wind  is  long  continued  from  one 
direction  the  general  drift  of  the  waves  and  the 
water  will  be  toward  the  opposite  point  of  the 
compass.  The  harder  and  stronger  the  blowing 
of  the  wind,  the  more  uniform  the  travel  of 
the  waves,  though  they  are  always  more  or  less 
ruffled  on  their  surfaces  by  eddies  and  contrary 
gusts,  and  occasionally  a  wave  set  in  a  lateral 
direction  breaks  in  upon  the  line  and  churns  up 
a  great  yeast  of  foam. 

With  a  stiff  wind  the  sea  shows  us  waves 
crested  with  foam  and  commonly  referred  to  as 
"  white-caps."  These  caps  are  produced  by  the 
crest  being  driven  faster  with  the  wind  than  the 
body  of  the  wave,  thus  losing  its  support ;  or 


THE   OPEN   SEA 


117 


by  the  crest  being  thrown  up  in  the  air  with 
the  upward  push  of  the  wave.  The  wedge- 
shaped  cap  thus  dashed  upward  or  forward 
breaks  into  spray,  is  filled  with  countless  air- 
bubbles,  and  shows  bluish-  or  greenish-white 
to  the  eye.  In  heavy  winds  this  "  white-cap  " 
is  apparent  in  every  direction,  but  it  does 
not  break  so  regularly  or  so  smoothly  as  in  a 
common  gale. 

Storm  waves  are  usually  marked  by  flawed 
and  broken  surfaces  and  their  crests  are  ragged 
and  torn,  often  being  wrenched  away  by  gusts 
of  wind  and  driven  across  the  ocean  in  the  form 
of  flying  spray.  But  despite  its  irregularity  of !  storm 
surface,  one  is  never  deceived  about  the  bulk  and 
weight  of  a  storm  wave.  Its  rise  and  heave  are 
indicative  of  its  power.  The  lift  of  the  wave 
seems  one  long,  straining  effort  at  pushing  up 
the  gable-shaped  crest.  It  heaves  and  heaves 
until  at  last,  having  pushed  the  top  to  an  un- 
sustainable height,  it  suddenly  lets  go  as  though 
exhausted  and  the  crest  pitches  forward  in  foam. 
In  long-continued  storms  these  same  waves  are 
beaten  into  white,  bubbling,  froth-hung  surfaces, 
foam  is  festooned  in  wreaths  from  every  crest, 
and  water  dust  rolls  into  every  hollow ;  the  air 
is  full  of  flying  spray,  the  clouds  are  obliterated, 


118 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


and  sky  and  sea  seem  to  melt  and  mingle  into 
one.  But  this  is  the  hurricane  storm  that  lit- 
erally beats  the  sea  into  yeast  and  blurs  both 
form  and  color.  It  is  not  frequently  seen,  and 
has  too  much  chaos  about  it  to  be  more  than 
awe-inspiring  by  its  power.  It  is  little  more 
enjoyable  than  the  night-scene  at  sea,  when  rain 
and  wind  are  howling  through  the  rigging,  and 
the  white-caps  gleam  dull  and  ghost-like  beside 
the  black  hulk  of  the  vessel.  Nature  is  some- 
times too  violent  for  either  love  or  admira- 
tion. 

The  height  of  storm  waves  is  more  moderate 
than  one  would  suppose.  In  fresh-water  lakes 
they  rise  to  a  greater  relative  pitch  than  on  the 
sea,  because  fresh  water  is  lighter  than  salt 
water.  The  waves  on  Lake  Superior,  for  in- 
stance, are  higher  in  proportion  to  wind  and 
water-depth  than  on  the  Mediterranean  ;  but 
on  neither  is  there  any  mountainous  altitude  at- 
tained. The  heavy  waves  of  the  Mediterranean 
average  only  from  thirteen  to  eighteen  feet  in 
the  perpendicular  ;  and  on  the  North  Atlantic, 
one  of  the  most  tempestuous  of  all  seas,  they 
are  only  from  nineteen  to  forty-three  feet — the 
latter  height  being  the  greatest  ever  known 
there.  This  is  certainly  high  enough,  but  hardly 


THE   OPEN   SEA 


119 


the  "  mountain  high  "  that  we  hear  about  so 
often  from  the  returned  tourist.  It  is  not  even 
hill  high.  It  has  been  asserted  that  off  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope  waves  one  hundred  and 
eight  feet  in  height  have  been  seen,  but  one 
may  venture  to  doubt  the  assertion.  The  Cape 
of  Good  Hope  region  has  always  furnished  the 
marvellous  in  sea-tales,  but  this  one  is  some- 
thing too  wonderful  for  belief. 

The  breadth  through  or  thickness  of  a  wave 
is  usually  determined  by  its  height  considered 
in  relation  to  its  class  or  kind.  On  the  open 
sea,  where  the  friction  of  the  sea-bottom  is 
eliminated,  the  longer  waves  are  often  several 
hundred  feet  through  from  hollow  to  hollow. 
The  long  heaving  swell  of  the  tropical  seas 
which  moves  under  the  ship,  lifts  it,  and  then 
passes  on  across  the  distance,  its  glassy  sur- 
face unbroken  by  any  dash  of  wave  or  spray, 
is  probably  the  thickest  of  all  ocean  waves. 
The  estimate  has  been  made  that  it  is  some- 
times from  five  to  six  hundred  feet  in  its 
largest  dimension.  But  this  long  swell  be- 
longs only  to  the  region  of  the  trade  winds, 
where  the  push  of  the  wind  against  the  wave 
is  regular  and  continuous.  In  localities  of 
Gross-winds  and  local  storm-centres  such  waves 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


and  such  thicknesses  are  infrequent,  if,  indeed, 
not  impossible. 

The  lines  of  a  wave  made  by  light-and-shade 
and  the  variation  of  color  are  somewhat  de- 
pendent upon  wave  motion.  The  swell  of 
the  Southern  seas  has  about  the  same  lines  as 
the  smaller  rolls  of  a  Dakota  prairie.  The 
horizontal  ridge  and  its  corresponding  valley 
are  distinctly  marked,  light-and-shade  and  color 
play  all  along  them,  and  the  heavens  above 
are  rolled  and  unrolled  from  them  in  long, 
flashing  reflections.  As  soon  as  the  sur- 
face is  broken  by  wind  the  lines  are  blurred, 
and  the  reflection  is  lost  in  local  hue,  though 
each  little  wave  continues  to  throw  off  from 
itself  the  tiny  reflection  of  light  and  color,  like 
a  portion  of  a  broken  mirror.  The  general 
form  and  heave  of  the  wave  are  not  lost ;  its 
surface  only  is  changed.  The  waves  on  the 
North  Atlantic  are  quite  different  from  this 
tropical  undulation.  They  are  shorter,  sharper, 
more  ragged  in  surface,  and  they  have  a  cross- 
blow  tumble  and  toss  about  them  that  some- 
times defy  the  line  and  make  only  flashing 
light  and  color  possible.  In  heavy  and  steady 
winds  they  heap  up  in  enormous  ridges,  follow- 
ing each  other,  file  upon  file,  like  other  waves', 


THE   OPEN   SEA 


121 


but  their  surfaces  are  always  irregular,  owing 
to  flaws  in  the  wind.  In  fact,  the  only  line  on 
the  North  Atlantic  that  has  any  stability  about 
it  is  the  horizon-line — the  darkest  line  usually 
on  the  face  of  the  waters.  Even  that  is  not  too 
strong,  owing  to  the  presence  of  vaporous  at- 
mosphere. It  is  only  on  cold,  clear  days  that 
it  is  sharply  defined. 

Wave  motion  is  more  of  an  appearance  than 
a  reality,  though  there  is  always  some  move- 
ment forward  in  each  wave,  and  a  general  drift 
of  the  water  in  the  direction  of  the  blowing 
wind.  That  which  has  real  movement  about 
it  is  the  undulation.  This  movement  of  the 
undulation  is  very  apparent  in  the  shaking 
of  a  carpet  on  the  lawn  or  the  bend  and  roll 
of  standing  grain  over  which  the  wind  moves 
swiftly.  Neither  the  carpet  nor  the  grain 
moves  forward,  but  the  undulation  certainly 
does.  And  it  often  moves  at  a  great  rate  of 
speed — say  fifty  miles  an  hour — out-stripping 
sometimes  the  winds  that  set  it  in  motion, 
just  as  a  heavy  log  in  a  river  current  when 
once  started  will  move  faster  than  the  cur- 
rent itself.  One  has  but  to  watch  the  move- 
ment of  floating  objects  on  the  waves  to  be 
convinced  that  the  water  itself  moves  but 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


slowly.  A  chip  rises  and  pitches  forward  on  a 
crest,  but  it  is  drawn  back  almost  an  equal  dis- 
tance into  the  succeeding  hollow.  Eventually 
it  is  carried  many  miles,  to  be  tossed  perhaps 
upon  some  island  shore ;  but  it  makes  a  very 
slow  passage. 

The  undulation  is  generally  supposed  to  be 
only  a  surface  affair — a  disturbance  like  the 
ringed  waves  that  ride  shoreward  from  a  stone 
cast  in  a  pond.  And  so  it  may  be ;  but  the  depth 
at  which  the  movement  is  felt  is  often  very  great. 
In  the  bays  and  harbors  along  shore  a  wave  four 
feet  in  height  can  be  seen  swaying  and  tossing 
the  sea-weed  many  feet  below  the  surface,  and 
in  the  Mediterranean,  where  the  water  is  very 
clear,  the  bottom  of  a  swell  has  been  seen  rush- 
ing through  rock  passages  twenty-five  fathoms 
down.  There  is  little  doubt  that  the  heaviest 
waves  can  be  felt  a  hundred  fathoms  below  the 
surface. 

The  local  color  of  sea  water  is  determined  by 
its  density,  its  depth,  the  ground  underneath 
it,  or  foreign  matter  held  in  it.  Salt  water  is 
denser  and  generally  bluer  than  fresh  water, 
and  the  regions  of  intense  salinity  are  generally 
the  deepest  hued  of  all.  The  Mediterranean, 
the  Red  Sea,  the  Caribbean  are  at  times  violet- 


THE  OPEN   SEA 


123 


blue,  while  the  waters  near  the  poles,  in  which 
melted  snow  and  ice  are  ingredients,  appear 
greenish-hued.  The  temperature  of  water  also 
has  some  effect  upon  the  coloring,  for  certainly 
the  warmest  waters  are  the  darkest.  And,  too, 
deep  waters  appear  much  bluer  than  shallow 
ones.  The  bays  and  harbors  and  coast  waters 
generally  look  light-hued,  possibly  because  of 
the  land  waters  brought  down  and  mingled 
with  the  sea,  and  also  because  of  their  reflecting 
bottoms  ;  but  chiefly  because  of  their  compara- 
tive shallowness. 

The  open  sea  on  an  average  is  about  two  miles 
deep,  and  in  spots  it  is  probably  five  or  six  miles ; 
but  this  depth,  which  should,  and  usually  does, 
give  great  body  of  coloring,  is  sometimes  offset 
by  remarkable  clearness  in  the  water.  Trans- 
parency is,  of  course,  dependent  upon  the  mass 
of  particles  held  in  the  water,  and  in  this 
there  is  great  inequality  in  the  different  sea 
areas.  It  is  said  that  the  bottom  can  be  seen  in 
the  polar  seas  at  so  great  a  distance  as  seventy 
fathoms  down.  How  the  bottom  at  that  depth 
may  effect  the  coloring  I  am  not  able  to  say,  but 
in  shallow  bays  and  harbors  there  is  no  question 
about  the  sea  floor  changing  the  coloring  of  the 
water.  It  is  well  known  that  certain  bays  with 


124 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


red  mud  bottoms  have  reddish  waters  and 
others  with  sandy  bottoms  have  yellow  waters. 
Black  streaks  in  the  water  are  often  indicative 
of  hidden  rocks  or  dark  masses  of  seaweed,  and 
a  sunken  mud-bank  will  occasionally  produce  a 
silver-gray  stripe  for  miles  across  an  inlet. 

But  however  the  bottom  may  change  the  local 
color  in  shallow  waters,  it  has  little  or  no  effect 
upon  the  great  seas.  Their  coloring  is  produced 
largely  by  particles  of  salt  and  other  substances 
held  in  the  water.  The  dust  and  moisture  par- 
i  tides  floating  in  the  atmosphere  are  productive 
of  the  blue  sky,  and  if  we  regard  the  waters  of 
the  sea  as  colored  by  similar  phenomena,  we 
shall  not  go  far  astray,  though  the  analogy  may 
not  be  quite  exact  in  every  way.  It  is  doubtless 
the  salt-particles  in  sea- water  having  the  power 
of  reflecting  blue  that  make  the  Mediterranean 
such  a  dark  ultramarine  ;  and  the  rock -par- 
ticles carried  down  from  the  Alps  by  the  Ehone 
make  the  water  of  that  stream  assume  a  beauti- 
ful green-blue  tone  even  when  the  reflecting 
blue  sky  is  shut  out  by  clouds.  Again,  the  ef- 
fect of  the  Blue  Grotto,  near  Capri,  is  produced 
by  light  shining  through  the  water  from  beneath 
and  striking  particles  that  apparently  turn  to 
blue  and  produce  that  tone  throughout  the  cave. 


THE  OPEN  SEA 


126 


Certain  particles  or  floating  matters — animal, 
vegetable  or  mineral,  I  know  not  which — make  I  Gulf  color. 
the  Gulf  Stream  an  indigo  current  travelling  tngt' 
through  a  lighter  body  of  water,  make  the  Gulf 
of  Lyons  a  darker  blue  than  the  sky  above  it,  and 
make  the  Gulf  of  Gascony  a  dark  green.  Refer- 
ence is  now  being  made  solely  to  local  color  and 
not  to  sky  reflection  of  any  kind.  For  if  these 
waters  be  taken  up  in  white  jars  the  difference 
in  hue  will  still  be  well  marked.  It  is  inherent 
in  the  water  and  is  a  part  of  it,  just  as  the  Yel- 
low Sea  is  yellow  because  of  vegetable  deposits, 
and  the  North  Sea  off  Scheveningen  is  yellow- 
brown  from  carrying  in  it  a  solution  of  earth 
matter.  We  can  see  the  same  local  color  effects 
in  fresh-water  lakes,  as,  for  instance,  in  the  Yel- 
lowstone region,  where  mineral  deposits  may 
produce  red,  green,  blue,  brown,  or  almost  any 
colored  water ;  and  the  warmer  the  water  the 
more  astonishing  the  coloring. 

Aside  from  this  coloring  matter,  the  hue  of 
ocean  water  is  sometimes  changed  in  spots  by 
the  presence  of  great  swarms  of  animalculae, 
or  patches  of  algae,  or  "sea-sawdust."  The 
spots  and  areas  of  white,  red,  and  brown  that 
look  so  picturesque  upon  the  surfaces  of  the 
Indian  and  Pacific  Oceans,  and  occasionally 


126 


NATURE  FOE   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


in  the  Arctic  seas,  are  accounted  for  in  this  way. 
But  these  are  mere  patches  of  surface-color  in 
isolated  regions.  The  general  hue  of  sea-water 
is  controlled  largely  by  the  matter  of  depth. 
It  requires  a  great  mass  of  air-particles  to  pro- 
duce a  blue  sky,  and  it  takes  a  great  depth  of  sea- 
water  and  much  reflection  from  salt-particles  to 
produce  "  the  deep  blue  sea."  It  is  safe  to  say, 
then,  that  the  greatest  depths  are  the  bluest, 
that  the  shallower  depths  incline  to  green,  and 
the  shallowest  waters — the  waters  near  shore — 
are  the  ones  that  show  the  browns,  reds,  or  yel- 
lows. 

All  of  these  colors  are  peculiarly  beautiful  for 
a  reason  we  seldom  take  into  consideration — 
namely,  their  transparency.  The  ordinary 
colors  of  nature  as  shown  in  grass,  flowers, 
trees,  fields,  mountains,  are  opaque.  The  hue 
is  on  the  surface,  and  is  only  a  veneer — an  outer 
coating — so  far  as  our  eyes  are  concerned.  But 
the  sky  in  its  interminable  height  and  the  sea 
in  its  vast  depth  are  blue  by  virtue  of  super- 
imposed layers  or  strata  of  transparent  sub- 
stances. It  is  not  until  stratum  has  been 
heaped  upon  stratum  in  countless  numbers  that 
the  color  begins  to  show.  We  see  into  them  as 
into  open  space,  the  quality  of  the  color  breaks 


THE   OPEN   SEA 


127 


upon  us  slowly,  and  its  greatest  tenderness  is 
revealed  to  us  only  in  its  profoundest  depths. 

But  beautiful  as  the  local  hues  of  sea- water 
may  be,  they  are  nearly  equalled  by  the  colors 
that  may  be  reflected  from  the  surface.  Light 
will  penetrate  water  as  it  does  glass,  coloring  it  as 
the  rays  are  broken  and  reflected  by  the  floating 
particles  ;  but  like  glass,  water  will  also  reflect 
color  and  light  from  its  face  with  wonderful 
clearness.  In  this  respect  the  ocean  is  not  very 
different  from  the  mountain  lake  and  the  road- 
side pool.  The  whole  dark  sweep  of  the  sea 
brightens  under  the  dawn  and  flames  under  the 
twilight,  and  every  heaving  wave  is  a  convex 
mirror.  Reflection  is,  however,  conspicuously 
apparent  only  when  the  surface  is  smooth.  On 
the  glassy  Southern  swell  it  is  possible  to  see  the 
white  clouds  pass  by  one  as  in  a  panorama,  the 
blue  sky  shaken  out  in  great  undulations,  and 
the  round,  flashing  sun  riding  the  smooth  waves 
like  an  enormous  diamond.  Whatever  the  sky 
contains  will  appear  in  the  reflection.  The 
sunsets  off  the  Isle  of  Shoals  in  the  calm  even- 
ings of  August  are  quite  as  gorgeous  on  the 
water  as  in  the  heavens.  Every  little  wave  that 
ripples  in  is  like  liquid  fire,  or  at  times  like  the 
rounded  surface  of  an  iridescent  vase.  Even  a 


128 


NATURE  FOR  ITS  OWN   SAKE 


more  gorgeous  coloring,  running  at  times 
through  almost  every  note  of  the  scale,  is  seen 
at  twilight  in  the  short,  lapping  waves  off  the 
western  coast  of  Scotland.  The  Mediterranean 
about  Spain  and  Algiers,  the  Adriatic  at  Ven- 
ice, the  seas  of  the  Southern  Pacific  are  won- 
derful in  their  color  harmony,  but  in  inten- 
sity of  hue  they  seem  less  positive  than  at  the 
North. 

Dawns  and  sunsets  far  out  on  the  open  water 
are  seldom  so  varied  or  so  gorgeous  as  near  or 
over  the  land.  The  air  at  sea  is  less  charged 
with  dust  than  moisture,  and  ruddiness  of  col- 
oring is  not  perhaps  so  possible  of  attainment. 
Occasionally,  however,  in  the  summer  months 
there  is  a  sharp  display  of  colors  as  the  sun 
comes  up  or  goes  down  over  the  water-line.  I 
find  in  one  of  my  note-books  the  following 
memoranda : 

"  July  11.  Gulf  Stream  :  The  sunset  colors  are  deep- 
orange,  pink,  and  yellow,  with  greenish  hues  in  the  sky 
spaces ;  a  fog-bank  just  beneath  the  sun  is  lilac-hued, 
turning  to  purple.  The  smooth  water  resplendent  like  a 
gold  floor;  far  up  the  zenith  the  wispy  cirrus  clouds  are 
shining  like  snow  against  the  blue." 

"  July  14.  Bright  yellow  sunset,  light  from  the  blue 
not  very  clear,  yellow  sun-shafts.  The  sun  is  barred 
with  dark  purple  clouds.  In  the  east,  north,  and  south 
pale  tints  of  lilac,  pearl-gray,  and  pink." 


THE  OPEN   SEA 


129 


If  the  ocean  surface  is  very  smooth,  one 
may  occasionally  see  at  sunset  the  double  sun — 
that  is,  the  sun's  reflection  as  a  round,  fiery  light 
in  the  water,  just  below  the  sun  itself  on  the 
western  horizon.  If  the  water  is  ruffled,  we 
have,  instead  of  the  round  light,  a  long  flicker- 
ing pathway  across  the  waves.  It  takes  the 
coloring  of  the  sun,  and  is  in  fact  only  its 
broken  reflection.  When  the  sun  is  high  up  in 
the  heavens  and  is  beating  down  diagonally  on 
slightly  ruffled  water,  this  pathway  is  less 
marked  in  color,  but  broader  and  more  brilliant 
in  light.  At  times  when  looking  at  it  with 
half -closed  eyes  one  can  see,  or  at  least  imagine, 
the  sun's  rays  striking  the  water  like  shot  and 
splashing  up  light  by  the  impact.  The  long 
trail  of  moonlight  on  the  ocean  which  we  all 
love  to  watch,  and  think  about  romantically  as 
the  same  moonlight  shining  on  the  river  at 
home,  is  a  similar  appearance,  only  the  light  is 
feebler  and  more  mellow,  and  the  apparent 
splash  of  the  falling  rays  striking  the  water  is 
not  so  noticeable. 

Cloud-shadows  are  as  conspicuous  on  ruffled 
water  as  upon  the  land,  and  the  number  of  color- 
changes  on  the  sea  surface  caused  by  clouds 
is  little  short  of  astonishing.  Sometimes  these 


Sunlight 
<m  the  tea. 


Moonlight. 


130 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


shadows  are  gray,  pale-green,  pearly,  or  even 
brown  ;  again,  and  more  frequently,  they  are 
mauve-colored  or  lilac.  The  clouds  producing 
the  shadows  are  usually  ragged  forms  of  the 
cumulus  drifting  low  in  the  air,  though  occa- 
sionally a  tall  tower  cloud  appears  over  a  warm 
sea,  and  in  periods  of  storm,  the  stratus  and 
the  nimbus.  For  the  colors  cast  by  these 
clouds  upon  the  water  I  can  do  no  better  than 
quote  my  note-book  again  : 

"July  16.  English  Channel:  Smooth  sea,  blue  sky 
dappled  with  white  cumulus  clouds,  water  full  of  color 
flaws.  The  cobalt-blues  are  broken  by  bright  patches  of 
green.  The  water  to  the  east  under  a  cloudy  sky  is  silver- 
gray  ;  the  water  to  the  west  under  a  blue  sky  is  intensely 
blue.  This  is  sky  and  cloud  reflection." 

"July  17.  Off  the  Solent:  The  water  full  of  lilac 
shadows  upon  a  pea-green  sea.  The  clouds  are  low  and 
drifting  fast,  the  shadows  shifting  on  the  sea  to  corre- 
spond. A  very  queer  color  effect  which  one  might  not 
think  possible  were  not  the  reality  before  him." 

The  variety  of  colored  shadow  upon  water  is 
almost  as  great  as  upon  land,  but  the  repeti- 
tion of  similar  effects  is  not  frequent.  The 
shadows  in  the  Solent  that  July  day  I  have 
never  seen  repeated  anywhere  on  the  water.  I 
am  disposed  to  think  that  the  color  in  the 
shadow  comes  from  the  reflection  of  the  cloud 


THE   OPEN   SEA 


131 


or  sky,  mingled  with  the  local  color  of  the  wa- 
ter, but  it  is  not  possible  to  be  certain  about 
this. 

The  misty  and  cloudy  days  at  sea  are  far  from 
being  colorless,  though,  of  course,  the  sea  is  not 
so  brilliant  as  under  sunlight.  Again  I  quote 
from  my  note-book  : 

"  Aug.  8.  Gray  day,  mist  close  in  upon  us  like  a  veil, 
horizon-circle  does  not  seem  more  than  a  mile  in  diam- 
eter. The  water  looks  gray-green,  the  mass  of  the  sea  a 
shade  darker  than  the  mist,  some  green  in  the  break  of 
the  wave.  At  sunset  the  light  seen  through  a  thin  rain- 
sheet  is  very  white,  almost  like  phosphorus." 

"Aug.  9.  Cloudy,  overcast  day,  sea  dark,  waves  mod- 
erately high.  The  crest  of  the  wave  just  below  the  white 
is  a  beautiful  dark-green.  In  the  churn  of  white  along 
the  steamer's  side  it  is  turquoise-green." 

These  peculiar  shades  of  sea-green  are  sel- 
dom, if  ever,  seen  under  sunlight.  Cloud  and 
storm  and  flying  scud  reveal  them  at  their  best. 
They  often  appear  in  patches,  extending  over  a 
small  area  of  the  sea,  and  will  shift  position  and 
move  off,  as  though  caused  by  the  shadows  of 
flying  clouds,  but  I  have  never  been  able  to 
locate  the  clouds  that  produced  them.  Cer- 
tainly they  appear  as  the  direct  result  of  clouded 
light,  and  show  at  their  brightest  when  the 
waves  are  breaking  with  a  swash  against  the 


132 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


black  side  of  the  steamer.  They  are  also  seen 
when  waves  are  breaking  on  a  rocky  coast,  and 
often,  during  storm,  emerald-green  is  churned 
out  of  the  indigo-blue  of  the  Gulf  Stream. 

These  blues  and  greens,  with  snowy  wave- 
crests  that  come  with  stormy  seas  and  cloudy 
skies,  certainly  have  a  most  stimulating  beauty 
about  them.  They  smack  of  Iceland  and  the 
aurora,  and  their  clear,  cold  color  suggests  the 
crystalline  purity  of  the  sea.  Quite  different 
from  such  strong  tones  of  coloring  are  the  warm 
surface  blues  and  pinks  that  play  upon  the  un- 
ruffled Southern  seas.  The  listless  loveliness  of 
light,  the  blend  of  the  two  vast  blues,  the  rosy 
ocean  of  the  dawn,  and  the  golden  ocean  of  the 
twilight,  what  a  contrast  to  the  North  Atlantic  ! 
And  yet,  how  very  beautiful !  From  the  smooth 
equatorial  swell,  all  the  light  and  warmth  and 
glow  of  the  heavens  are  reflected  as  in  a  moun- 
tain-lake. Every  opaline  flush  upon  the  cloud, 
every  pale-lilac  of  the  horizon-vapors,  every 
green  and  gold  of  the  barred  sky  at  sunset  re- 
peats its  image  in  the  slow-heaving  wave,  until 
the  vast  water  seems  but  an  inverted  sky,  and 
the  whole  scene  in  vision  swims  a  realm  of  light 
and  color. 

And  those  soft,  windless  nights  of  the  South, 


THE  OPEN   SEA 


133 


the  orange  moon  rising  in  the  east,  the  smoke 
of  the  steamer  trailing  in  dusky  banner  lazily 
behind,  the  black  masts  and  yard-arms  swing- 
ing slowly  backward  and  forward  across  the 
starry  heavens,  the  stars  themselves  flashing  on 
the  blue-black  ocean  floor  !  It  is  not  possible 
to  conjure  up  a  more  beautiful  scene.  The 
storm  beauty  of  the  Eoaring  Forties,  yes ;  but 
ah  !  the  great  peace,  the  calm  splendor  of  the 
Southern  seas  I 


Foiling 
the  equator. 


CHAPTER  VII 


On  the 
beach. 


The  coatt 
wave. 


ALONG  SHORE 

THE  restlessness  of  the  sea  shows  itself  no- 
where more  positively  than  where  its  waves 
encounter  the  opposition  of  the  shore.  The 
foam-backed  rollers  may  jostle  and  rasp  each 
other  in  the  open  and  still  drive  on  compara- 
tively unscathed  ;  but  on  the  reef,  the  cliff,  and 
the  beach  they  fret  and  dash  themselves  to 
pieces.  Almost  every  second  they  are  breaking 
and  falling,  but  their  number  seems  not  to 
lessen.  New  ranks  replace  the  broken  van- 
guard ;  the  breakers  are  never  quiet,  never  at 
rest.  On  sand  and  beach  and  promontory  the 
rub  of  the  water  is  always  felt,  the  wash  of 
the  wave  is  always  heard. 

In  calm  weather  the  gentle,  smooth-tongued 
swells  seem  quite  harmless  as  they  play  in  and 
out  of  rock-fissures  and  gravel-pens,  or  fall 
lightly  on  the  white  sand  of  the  beach ;  but  it 
is  quite  a  different  tale  when  the  storm  waves 
break,  booming  and  crashing,  on  the  coast.  The 
134 


ALONG   SHORE 


136 


battering  power  of  water  is  enormous,  and  it 
always  works  more  destruction  on  a  shallow 
coast  than  on  a  deep  one.  A  cliff,  for  instance, 
that  has  a  shelving  bottom  leading  up  to  it  has 
much  more  fury  directed  against  it  than  one 
with  a  base  seated  in  deep  water.  The  waves 
will  not  rush  forward  and  dash  into  spray 
against  the  latter.  On  the  contrary,  they  flood 
up  heavily  and  slowly,  and  seem  to  stop  with- 
out striking  a  blow,  the  crests  dancing  up 
against  each  other  rather  than  against  the 
rocks.  The  reasons  for  this  will  be  apparent 
if  we  consider  for  a  moment  the  conditions 
that  make  possible  the  "  breaker "  and  the 
' '  beach-comber." 

The  surf  breaks  most  violently  over  shoals  or 
along  a  shelving  beach  where  the  bottom  of  the 
ocean  bevels  upward  toward  the  shore.  A 
wave  from  the  sea  is  pushed  up  this  incline 
with  a  swiftness  proportionate  to  the  propel- 
ling force  behind  it.  The  friction  or  drag 
upon  the  wave  comes  from  the  shelving  bot- 
tom ;  and  as  the  shore  is  neared  this  friction  is 
not  only  intensified  by  the  increased  abruptness 
of  the  incline,  but  also  by  the  flow  outward  of 
those  returning  waters  from  the  beach  which 
we  call  the  "  undertow/'  The  result  is,  the 


136 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


lower  part  of  the  wave  is  not  able  to  keep  up 
with  the  upper  part,  the  top  is  shot  violently 
forward,  and  having  no  base  to  rest  upon, 
breaks  and  falls  upon  the  beach  in  spray.  The 
cause  of  the  dancing  upward  of  the  waves  under 
the  deep-based  cliff  will  now  be  apparent.  The 
base  of  the  wave,  meeting  with  no  marked 
friction,  moves  as  fast  as  the  top  and  strikes 
the  rock  beneath  the  surface.  The  whole  wave 
rebounds  against  the  wave  following  it,  and  a 
push  upward  of  the  water  in  vertical  points  or 
dancing  jets  is  the  result.  There  is  no  other 
way  for  the  water  to  move. 

It  will  not  have  escaped  the  notice  of  the  most 
casual  observer  that  the  waves  breaking  upon  a 
coast  follow  each  other  more  closely  than  upon 
the  open  sea.  The  friction  upon  the  waves  as 
they  reach  shallow  water — the  drag  upon  the 
bottom — is  also  responsible  for  this.  The  front 
ones  cannot  move  so  fast  as  the  rear  ones,  and 
there  is  a  closing  up  of  the  ranks — sometimes 
a  doubling  or  tripling  of  the  waves.  This  at 
times  results  in  the  waves  along  shore  being 
smaller  than  on  the  open  sea,  and  again,  in 
times  of  storm,  it  may  result  in  their  being 
larger.  Certainly  a  storm  on  a  rocky  coast  will 
throw  the  breaker-crest  higher  than  upon  open 


ALONG  SHORE 


137 


water.  For  a  different  set  of  forces  regulates 
the  form  aud  motion  of  the  crest  in  mid-ocean. 
The  white-cap  on  the  open  sea  is  lifted  to  a 
height  where  it  cannot  sustain  itself  by  the  push 
up  of  the  water  and  the  wind  ;  but  the  wave  has 
no  beach  beneath  it  to  concentrate  strength 
in  the  cap.  Driving  upon  the  coast,  the  cap  is 
flung  forward  by  the  wedging  process  already 
described,  and,  if  there  is  a  fierce  storm,  it 
is  often  shot  up  the  shore  to  a  great  height. 
Light-houses  on  rocky  ledges  far  above  the  sea- 
level  have  been  frequently  washed  over  and 
destroyed  by  these  enormous  breakers,  and 
upon  the  cliffs  of  the  Irish  coast  the  waves 
sometimes  rush  up  fully  two  hundred  feet. 
The  blow  struck  upon  the  cliffs  by  such  masses 
of  water  is  estimated  at  from  two  to  three  tons 
to  the  square  foot ;  and  a  mile  back  from  the 
shore  the  ground  can  be  felt  to  tremble  under 
the  terrific  impact.  It  is  the  sharp,  upward 
incline  of  the  shore  bottom  that  makes  such 
waves  possible.  On  the  open  sea  they  could 
not  by  any  chance  rise  to  such  a  height.  The 
maximum  of  the  Atlantic  wave  has  already 
been  given  at  forty-three  feet,  and  not  even  in 
the  Roaring  Forties,  in  the  most  violent  storm 
ever  known  to  roaring  sea-captains,  has  a 


138 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


higher  wave  been  known.  It  is  only  by  forc- 
ing water  on  a  coast  or  through  a  channel  that 
great  height  is  attained.  The  fifty  feet  of  tide 
that  rises  so  rapidly  in  the  narrow,  wedge- 
shaped  Bay  of  Fundy  is  an  analogous  illustra- 
tion. 

The  beach-comber,  as  it  conies  in  upon  the 
sloping  sand,  is  somewhat  tame  compared  with 
the  rocky  coast-breaker.  It  rises  and  falls  with 
more  apparent  regularity.  As  it  rises,  a  long 
line  of  light  may  be  seen  shining  beneath  the 
top,  and  the  already  curling  crest  seems  hurry- 
ing down  to  meet  it.  Just  at  this  time  the 
wave  shows  its  greatest  beauty  of  color.  The 
foam  of  the  top  is  half  water,  half  air,  and  is 
bluish-white,  while  the  green  and  dark-blue  of 
the  wave  are  the  more  transparent  for  the  light 
shot  through  the  thin  concave  of  water.  The 
glassy  curve  shows  for  a  moment  a  whirling 
panorama  of  beach,  sun,  and  sky ;  the  base  of 
the  wave  swings  back  and  under,  the  crest 
swings  over,  and  in  another  moment  the  whole 
structure  has  broken  in  a  froth  of  foam  on 
the  shore. 

If  the  beach  is  sandy  and  quite  flat  the 
broken  wave  pushes  its  waters  in  a  gentle  flood 
upward  and  outward  in  rings  and  half-circles, 


ALONG   SHOEE 


139 


edged  with  white-beaded  foam ;  and  these,  as 
they  advance  and  pause  for  a  few  seconds, 
take  on  wonderful  forms  and  still  more  won- 
derful colors.  Especially  brilliant  are  these 
flat  mirrors  at  evening,  when  the  waves  are  not 
running  high  and  the  heavens  are  bright  with 
sunset  hues.  The  reflection  is  more  delicate 
than  the  sky  overhead,  and  the  colors  melted 
and  fused  on  the  glassy  surface,  run  together 
with  a  harmony  beyond  analysis.  Every  hue 
and  tint  are  there,  and  all  are  softened  and 
warmed  by  being  seen  in  the  watery  mirror. 

But  the  water  pushed  up  on  the  beach  lingers 
for  only  the  fraction  of  a  minute,  and  then  slowly 
turns  and  runs  back  under  the  base  of  the 
newly  forming  wave.  Some  of  it  runs  out  into 
deep  water  in  the  undertow,  but  the  bulk  of  it 
helps  form  the  base  of  another  wave.  It  will 
be  remembered  that  waves  themselves  travel 
but  slowly,  and  that  the  undulation  furnishes 
most  of  the  movement.  It  is  not  new  water 
that  comes  in  with  each  wave.  If  it  were,  one 
might  wonder  what  became  of  the  old  water 
fallen  upon  the  beach.  The  little  current  there 
is  in  the  undertow  would  not  be  sufficient  to 
carry  it  off,  and  besides,  the  running  of  the 
undertow  is  not  always  apparent.  It  is  the 


140 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


undulation  that  makes  the  breaker,  and  the 
constant  swash  of  waters  on  the  beach  is  as  the 
fringe  of  a  cloth  flapping  in  the  wind.  When 
great  quantities  of  water  (not  undulation)  are 
driven  in  upon  the  shore  by  heavy  and  con- 
tinued wind,  the  sea  rises  and  floods  all  the 
inlets  and  marshes ;  but  in  the  falling  of  waves 
upon  the  beach  there  is  no  rising  of  the  sea. 
The  beach-combers  are  made  up  of  substantially 
the  same  water  cast  into  new  forms,  new  lights, 
new  colors. 

The  lateral  direction  of  a  reef  or  beach  has 
little  to  do  with  the  direction  the  waves  may  take. 
It  may  retard  or  cripple  their  force,  but  it  has 
slight  influence  in  turning  them  aside  or  making 
them  follow  another  course.  There  is  not 
enough  cohesive  body  about  water  to  have  its 
course  turned  except  by  slow  degrees.  That 
which  gives  the  "  set  onward  "  of  the  waves  is 
the  prevailing  wind,  and,  once  started  in  a  cer- 
tain direction,  the  waves  run  on  until  broken  to 
pieces  against  the  rocks  or  the  beach.  And  it 
is  interesting,  perhaps,  to  know  that  the  waves 
seldom  strike  the  coast  or  the  beach  a  full 
broadside.  Instead  of  coming  straight  on  they 
are  usually  a  little  twisted,  so  that  they  strike 
the  beach  at  an  angle,  and  the  travel  of  the 


ALONG  SHOEE 


141 


breaking  crest  may  often  be  followed  by  the 
eye  for  a  long  distance  down  the  shore.  This 
side  thrust  of  the  waves  has  one  very  positive 
effect.  It  wears  away  the  shore,  and  that, 
too,  faster  than  any  direct  blow.  The  side 
push  works  in  swirls,  sand  is  swept  along  the 
beach  and  gradually  dragged  into  the  sea  by  the 
under-currents  to  be  carried  off  and  deposited 
on  some  near-by  shoal  or  bar,  and  the  tendency 
is  to  hollow  out  the  beach-line  in  half -circles. 
As  a  result  we  have  the  beautiful  sickle-moon 
curves  that  mark  the  sand-beaches  on  almost 
every  sea-coast.  Next  to  the  lines  of  the  snow- 
drifts, they  are  as  graceful,  perhaps,  as  any- 
thing the  eye  may  see — save  always  the  lines 
of  a  flowing  river.  The  best  place  to  see  them 
is  from  a  high  cliff,  looking  down  along  the 
shore.  The  curves  of  bay  and  beach  will  then 
appear  quite  perfect. 

The  same  form  of  wave-action  works  similar 
results  upon  the  rocks  of  a  coast,  but  with 
less  ease  and  uniformity.  The  water,  striking 
full-faced  against  the  rock  surfaces,  is  simply 
shattered  into  foam,  but  coming  diagonally 
it  gains  cutting  power  by  a  rasp  and  a  grind 
all  along  the  bases.  And  in  this  grind  the 
loose  stones  and  bowlders,  hurled  and  rolled 


Wear  upon 
the  beach. 


Curvet  of 


Wave-action 
on  the  rocki. 


142 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


Cliff  under- 
mining. 


along,  one  over  another,  prove  very  effective 
weapons  of  destruction.  They  are  swept  in 
and  out  of  pools  and  crevices,  lodged  in  pot- 
boles,  caverns,  and  scoops,  and  churned  round 
and  round  by  eddies  and  currents  with  a  scrape 
and  a  grate  at  every  turn.  The  cliff  is  thus 
gradually  undermined,  and  needs  only  the 
heave  of  frost  to  topple  it  into  the  sea.  It  is 
protected  in  a  way  by  its  own  ruins — the  outer 
guard  of  fallen  rock  that  breaks  the  force  of  the 
waves — and  besides  this,  the  cliff  bases,  as  well 
as  the  fallen  bowlders,  are  sheathed  with  fringes 
of  seaweed  and  barnacles ;  but  still  this  grind 
of  the  surge  and  the  ceaseless  beat  of  the  surf 
finally  wear  all  of  them  away,  and  their  parti- 
cles, like  the  sands  from  the  beaches,  are  carried 
out  to  sea  by  the  under-currents  and  deposited 
on  the  shoals.  The  diagonal  thrust  of  the 
waves  has  something  of  the  effect  upon  the 
shore  that  the  running  stream  has  upon  its 
banks.  It  not  only  has  cutting  and  wearing 
power,  but  it  makes  currents  which  carry  off 
what  is  cut  away. 

The  greatest  wear  of  the  waves  is,  naturally, 
where  the  rock  is  the  softest.  A  hard  quality 
of  rock — so  hard  that  it  has  endured — usually 
appears  as  the  armored  prow  of  every  project- 


ALONG  SHORE 


143 


ing  cape  or  V-shaped  promontory  that  stretches 
out  into  the  sea.  It  is  the  outlying  guard,  and 
so  long  as  it  stands  it  protects  what  is  behind  it. 
When  the  sea  finally  wears  away  the  point  it 
is  likely  to  leave  a  sunken  base  but  a  few  feet 
below  the  surface,  over  which  the  waves  break  in 
spray  ;  or  perhaps  there  remains  one  of  those 
fantastic  pinnacles  or  pillars,  usually  called 
Devil's  Pulpits,  which  may  be  seen  along  almost 
any  rocky  coast.  At  times  again,  waves  wear- 
ing upon  a  soft  portion  of  a  rock  hollow  out 
caverns  or  perhaps  passages  clear  through  the 
promontory,  into  which  the  water  rushes  and  is- 
sues on  the  other  side  in  a  tumult  of  spray.  When 
the  supporting  sides  of  the  cavern  are  of  sturdy 
material,  the  roof  may  remain  after  the  rest  of  the 
promontory  has  been  eaten  through,  in  which 
case  we  have  the  natural  bridge  or  arch — a  not 
infrequent  sight  on  rocky  coasts,  and  certainly 
a  picturesque  one.  A  more  common  way,  how- 
ever, of  wearing  the  rock  is  by  the  water  fol- 
lowing the  seams  and  cleavages  opened  by  frost. 
The  savage  thrust  of  the  sea  through  these 
cracks  sometimes  results  in  the  "spouting- 
horn,"  which  flings  up  its  jet  of  foam  with 
great  force,  and  under  sunlight  with  surpris- 
ing beauty  of  effect.  Still  more  common  is  the 


144 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


grind  of  wave  and  bowlder  on  the  base  of  the 
cliff,  until  it  is  so  eaten  away  that  the  top 
heaved  by  frost  falls  into  the  sea  by  its  own 
weight.  In  either  or  any  case,  and  however  the 
wear  may  take  place,  it  is  slow  annihilation  for 
the  cliff.  The  sea  gains  inch  by  inch. 

But  the  shore  is  not  subject  to  all  loss  and  no 
gain.  Occasionally  a  great  storm  brings  sand 
in  and  heaps  it  up  along  the  beach.  This  is  the 
beginning  of  the  sand-dune — the  great  protector 
of  the  land  against  the  sea.  It  must  not  be 
conjectured,  however,  that  the  high  dunes  of 
the  Cape  Cod  shore  or  the  low  sand-banks  of 
the  New  Jersey  coast  are  wholly  the  heaped-up 
deposits  of  the  waves.  Dry  sand  will  drift  with 
the  wind  very  much  like  hard  ball  snow,  as 
anyone  who  has  been  on  Sahara  will  testify. 
Even  the  tourists  at  Cairo,  who  never  go  be- 
yond the  Mooski,  will  be  able  to  say  how  many 
times  the  Sphinx  has  been  dug  out  of  the 
drifted  sands  of  Egypt.  Along  the  exposed 
shore,  where  the  winds  are  always  restless, 
the  loose  sands  are  kept  in  continual  motion, 
and  it  is  the  winds  that  round  up  and  build 
the  hills  and  valleys  of  the  sand-dunes.  In 
addition  to  the  sands  brought  in  by  the  sea,  the 
land  breezes  drift  quantities  of  them  down 


ALONG   SHORE 


146 


to  the  shore  when  the  tide  is  out,  and  pile  them 
over  the  tops  of  broken  masts,  sea-weed,  and 
rubbish,  until  they  make  a  bank  that  may  be  a 
barrier  against  the  wave.  Once  a  mound  is 
made  it  is  held  in  place  by  the  hardy  grasses 
and  scrub-vegetation  that  grow  on  its  sides 
and  top.  The  mound  or  bank  may  keep  add- 
ing to  itself  in  this  way  until  it  stands  a  hun- 
dred feet  high  along  the  coast,  and  makes  an  al- 
most impregnable  sea-wall.  Behind  such  pro- 
tection as  these  sand-dunes,  and  by  the  building 
of  dikes  across  the  ocean  inlets,  thousands  of 
acres  of  water  have  been  turned  into  green 
pasture-lands  and  flat  fields.  Holland  is  an 
illustration  of  it. 

There  is  still  another  way  by  which  the  land 
gains  upon  the  sea.  The  rivers,  coming  from 
a  great  distance  inland,  flood  drift  and  dirt 
into  the  ocean.  After  a  time  the  mouth  of 
the  river  begins  to  choke  up  with  muddy  de- 
posits; a  bar  and  then  a  bayou  or  lagoon  is 
formed,  a  marsh  begins  to  rise  above  the  waters, 
seaweed  accumulates,  rushes  and  flags  spring 
into  life  and  make  the  ground  stable ;  and 
after  many  years  a  group  of  islands,  or  perhaps 
a  habitable  meadow-land,  is  formed.  Venice 
was  builded  upon  such  a  formation,  caused  by 


146 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


the  deposits  of  the  Brenta ;  and  the  original 
bar  that  caused  the  choking  of  the  river  and 
made  the  lagoons  is  now  called  the  Lido. 

The  tides  in  their  rise  and  fall  have  some 
effect  upon  the  shores,  and  they  wear  more  or 
less  upon  the  harbors  and  narrow  inlets ;  but 
their  usual  comings  and  goings  are  too  pacific 
to  cause  much  injury.  On  the  coast  of  Florida, 
where  the  tide  rises  only  about  a  foot,  there  is 
no  appreciable  effect,  but  it  is  quite  different  in 
the  Bay  of  Fundy,  where  it  rises  sometimes  fifty 
feet,  and  with  great  rapidity.  Its  wear  in  that 
arrow-pointed  bay  is  almost  as  severe  as  that  of 
storm  waves.  Along  the  shore  the  rocks  are 
worn  horizontally,  and  show  in  jagged  ledges 
like  strata  of  slate. 

But  the  Bay  of  Fundy  is  rather  an  excep- 
tional case.  Usually  the  flooding  of  the  tide  is 
a  noiseless  stealing  upward  and  inward  of  great 
bodies  of  water.  It  backs  up  the  river,  rises 
through  the  marshes  and  meadows,  covers  the 
reefs,  bars,  and  beaches,  and  hides  from  view 
the  sea-weeds,  the  barnacled  rocks,  and  the 
shattered  hulks  of  sand-sunk  ships  along  the 
shore.  It  is  well  called  a  "flood-tide,"  for  it 
is  little  more  than  an  inundation  of  the  sea. 
It  is  interesting  to  watch  as  it  creeps  and 


ALONG   SHORE 


147 


spreads,  and  it  may  stir  romantic  thoughts  in 
the  minds  of  lovers  ;  but  from  a  picturesque 
point  of  view  one  is  at  some  loss  to  discover 
anything  remarkable  about  its  looks. 

Not  so  with  the  ebb-tide,  when  the  water  goes 
out  and  leaves  great  beds  of  rock  and  sand  and 
reef  exposed  to  view.  It  is  not  merely  that  the 
exposed  places  are  curious  for  their  wealth  of 
sea- weed  and  barnacle  and  stranded  ocean-life, 
but  they  are  often  extremely  interesting  as 
form  and  color.  The  great  bowlders  covered 
with  clinging  fringes  of  sea- weed  are  graceful  in 
outline,  and  quite  charming  in  such  tones  as  dull 
yellow  and  sage-green.  The  pools  left  in  the 
rocks  and  the  gravel-pens  are  marvellous  studies 
in  different  hues,  and  the  dark,  water- worn  rock- 
bases  offer  a  strong  contrast  to  the  light-gray 
tops  bathed  in  the  sunlight.  Even  the  black 
spots  of  sunken  ledges,  hulks,  or  broken  piers 
that  peep  above  the  water  at  low  tide  have  a 
picturesque  quality  about  them,  lending  accent 
to  the  scene  ;  and  the  sweeping  indentations  of 
the  coast,  the  bridges,  pulpits,  and  rugged  prom- 
ontories all  seem  so  much  more  powerful  and 
massive  in  form  when  the  tide  is  out. 

The  curves  and  lines  along  a  coast  are 
an  unending  study.  Not  merely  the  smooth 


148 


NATURE  FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


bend  of  a  basin  worn  ont  by  water,  but  the  vast, 
rounded  curve  of  a  headland  against  the  sky ; 
not  merely  the  graceful  roll  of  wave-worn  lines 
on  a  sand-beach,  but  the  circular  swing  of  a 
cove  or  bay  against  the  sea.  Lest  there  should 
be  too  much  flowing  smoothness  about  such 
lines,  there  is  always  the  rectangular  block  or 
the  splintered  shaft  that  protrudes  above  the 
line  of  the  headland,  the  uneven  sand-dune,  or 
the  broken  mass  of  the  forest  running  back  of 
the  bay  to  act  as  a  foil.  These  are  the  sharp- 
ly accented  marks  that  save  the  scene  from 
weakness.  And  the  broad  masses  of  color  are 
not  less  powerful.  The  cobalt-blue  of  the  sea 
turning  to  violet  in  twilight  shadow,  the  white, 
gray,  or  yellow  of  the  shore,  the  deep  greens  of 
the  forest,  the  blues  and  whites  of  the  firma- 
ment— where  else  can  such  colors  be  equalled  ? 
They  are  the  primary  chords  in  one  of  nature's 
greatest  harmonies. 

The  coloring  of  the  coast  is  more  susceptible 
to  the  influence  of  light  and  sky  reflection 
than  almost  any  other  portion  of  the  earth. 
Possibly  the  cause  for  this  lies  in  the  great  re- 
flecting field  of  water  so  close  at  hand.  The  sea 
not  only  throws  back  the  light  of  the  heavens,  but 
it  thickens  the  coast  atmosphere,  thus  regulat- 


ALONG  SHORE 


149 


ing  the  distribution  of  light,  and  tingeing  the 
whole  coloring  of  the  shore.  And  the  shore  is 
so  very  easily  tinged.  The  pebbles,  shells,  and 
mica  sands  that  go  to  make  the  beach,  whether 
wet  or  dry,  respond  in  coloring  to  the  light. 
Even  the  rocks  are  mellowed  by  it.  Close 
at  hand  they  may  look  yellow,  brown,  or  gray, 
according  to  their  mineral  composition.  Along 
the  New  England  coast  they  are  dull  yellow, 
stained  with  iron-rust,  and  if  one  of  the  little 
pools  lying  in  a  hollow  of  a  rock  be  examined 
it  will  disclose  a  background  of  bright  orange  ; 
but  this  local  color  is  not  apparent  when  a  jut- 
ting headland  is  seen  from  a  distance.  A  gray 
light  may  blend  into  sobriety  the  colors  of 
the  cliff,  the  white  beach,  the  dark  pines,  or  a 
warm-yellow  sunlight  may  enliven  them  all 
with  a  new  hue.  At  twilight  pink  and  rose 
may  spread  from  sky  to  water,  and  from  water 
to  sand  and  rock,  until  the  whole  vision  is  a 
rosy  one.  At  other  times  the  scene  may  show 
a  golden,  a  greenish,  or  a  bluish  tinge,  depend- 
ent always  on  the  light. 

Beautiful  by  day  the  shore  is  perhaps  even 
more  beautiful,  certainly  more  impressive,  by 
night.  The  moonlight  silvers  the  tall  cliffs 
until  they  look  like  vast  fortresses  of  marble, 


150 


NATURE  FOE  ITS   OWN  SAKE 


and  the  sand  of  the  beach  gleams  white  as 
winter  snow.  The  Fairies'  Pathway  of  moon- 
beams, or  as  the  Chinese  call  it,  the  Golden 
Dragon,  twists  and  flashes  upon  the  eastern 
water,  the  dark  pines  stand  in  silent  ranks  their 
tops  spread  against  the  purple  western  sky,  and 
from  the  dividing  line  of  land  and  sea  comes 
that  eternal  surge  of  the  wave.  How  it  hushes 
the  cry  of  the  mortal — that  sullen  moan  of 
waters  !  What  human  woe  or  weariness  but 
sobs  itself  to  sleep  at  last !  But  for  the  sea 
there  is  no  rest.  Under  the  stars,  as  under  the 
sun,  to-day  as  through  the  long  centuries  of 
yesterday,  it  throbs  and  beats  at  the  feet  of  the 
earth,  and  its  voice  is  never  stilled. 

And  is  not  the  sea-shore  equally  beautiful  in 
storm,  when  the  spray  is  flying  high  above  the 
cliffs  and  the  rock -bases  are  trembling  with  the 
shock  of  water?  The  majority  of  us  see  the 
coast  in  the  calm  months  of  summer  when  it  is 
not  agitated  by  long  storms,  when  the  life-sav- 
ing service  men  have  closed  their  stations,  and 
only  the  curl  of  the  breeze-wave  is  seen  on  the 
beach.  But  the  time  when  the  sea  is  in  its 
full  power  is  mid-winter,  when  the  land  is 
white  with  snow  and  the  wave  is  white  with 
foam.  Then  the  roar  and  hurly-burly  of  the 


ALONG   SHORE 


151 


waters  beating  against  the  cliffs  and  crashing 
on  the  beach,  tell  us  what  latent  strength  lies  in 
our  whilom  summer  sea.  The  pound  of  the 
waves  is  terrific.  They  rush  and  dash  along 
the  ledges  and  through  the  fissures,  and  are 
flung  high  in  air  by  every  stubborn  headland. 
After  many  hours  of  this  wild  charging  the 
water  itself  begins  to  have  a  beaten  and  bat- 
tered look  about  it.  It  is  churned  about  the 
rocks  until  it  hangs  in  ropes  or  skeins  of  foam, 
and  oftentimes  the  very  whiteness  is  whipped 
out  of  it — the  froth  lying  in  soiled,  cream-col- 
ored streaks  upon  the  surface.  In  such  storms 
many  a  heavy  block  of  granite  is  shaken  from 
the  cliff-wall  and  rolled  into  the  sea,  and  many 
a  new  inlet  or  bay  is  cut  out  in  a  few  hours  by 
the  steady  beat  and  wash  of  ponderous  breakers. 
As  for  the  fate  of  a  ship  driven  on  a  bar  or 
shoal  in  such  a  storm,  it  can  readily  be  imagined. 
As  soon  as  she  strikes  the  sands  the  waves  be- 
gin to  break  over  her  decks,  and  a  few  hours 
may  suffice  to  see  her  stove  in  and  pounded  to 
pieces. 

It  would  seem  as  though  this  destruction  of 
cliff  and  beach  were  anything  but  a  blessing, 
and  yet  the  storm  at  sea  has  its  uses.  If  it  har- 
ries and  worries  the  shore,  it  helps  the  broad 


152 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


acres  lying  back  from  it.  Out  of  the  ocean 
come  the  vapors  that  form  the  clouds ;  and 
the  massive  ranks  of  nimbus  that  voyage  inland 
with  the  storm,  creating  uproar  all  along  the 
coast,  are  the  water-carriers  for  the  land.  The 
fountain,  the  stream,  the  brook,  the  river,  and 
the  lake ;  the  dew  on  the  grass,  the  sap  in  the 
tree,  the  color  of  the  flower,  and  all  the  gorgeous 
garmenting  of  creation,  are  due  to  the  vapors 
of  the  sea.  If  the  time  ever  comes  when  there 
shall  be  "  no  more  sea,"  then  will  come  with  it 
an  end  of  all  life.  The  primary  physical  condi- 
tions of  life  here  on  earth  are  heat,  light,  and 
moisture.  With  the  last  element  gone,  the  first 
would  follow,  and  the  second  would  be  rendered 
useless.  The  world  would  be  as  cold,  dead,  and 
colorless  as  our  skeleton  satellite  the  moon.  The 
dread  sea — so-called — was  not  created  in  vain. 
It  has  its  uses  and  it  certainly  has  its  beauties. 
Mare  horrendum  it  may  be  to  some ;  but  to 
those  who  know  it  well  and  have  lived  upon 
it  or  beside  it  all  their  lives,  it  is  as  lovable 
in  its  stern  character  and  majestic  desolation 
as  the  sands  of  Sahara  to  the  wandering  Bedou- 
in, or  the  tumbled-and-tossed  Bad  Lands  of 
Dakota  to  the  predatory  Sioux. 


CHAPTER  VHI 


RUNNING  WATERS 

IT  is  seldom  that  a  river  empties  itself  into 
the  sea  from  between  high  banks  of  earth  or 
rock.  Long  before  tide- water  is  reached,  the 
banks  have  usually  fallen  back  and  away  from 
the  stream,  the  course  is  through  undulating 
country,  flat  plain,  meadow,  or  marsh,  and 
the  stream  itself  in  the  last  few  miles  of  its  run 
usually  flattens  out  and  becomes  shallow.  About 
the  mouth  or  mouths,  for  there  are  often  several 
of  them,  are  heavy  deposits  of  mud  and  sand 
which  year  by  year  the  stream  has  been  carry- 
ing down  ;  and  these  choke  and  raise  the  exit, 
causing  the  water  to  move  slower.  As  it  nears 
sea-level  its  velocity  and  its  wash  are  perceptibly 
lessened,  its  course  is  tortuous  like  that  of  a 
wounded  snake,  and  its  very  slowness  is  favor- 
able to  the  settling  of  its  sedimeutal  mud  and 
sand.  At  last,  when  the  stream  reaches  the  sea, 
its  final  leap  of  mad  freedom  into  its  ocean  bed 
is  less  apparent  in  the  reality  than  in  the  imag- 
158 


The  river  at 
the  tea. 


154 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


ination  of  some  graphic  narrator.  All  the  rivers 
I  have  known  melt  into  the  sea  as  smoke  fades 
into  the  air.  The  current  is  loosed  from  its  con- 
fining banks,  but  it  still  holds  headway  out  upon 
the  top  of  the  salt  water  for  some  distance,  its 
coloring  marking  its  course,  until  gradually  it 
breaks  into  thin,  cloud-like  sheets  and  is  finally 
absorbed  and  neutralized  by  the  vast  body  of 
the  sea. 

If  we  enter  a  river  from  the  sea,  we  may  have 
some  difficulty  at  the  start  in  finding  the  main 
stream.  The  water  is  spread  wide,  and  there 
are  many  false  inlets  and  bayous  scattered  here 
and  there.  Even  when  we  are  at  last  in  the 
main  channel,  we  find  the  water  discolored  and 
moving  sluggishly  between  low,  ill-defined 
banks.  There  is  little  movement  at  this  final 
stage  of  river  life,  little  winding  in  and  out  of 
nooks  and  bends.  The  stream  seems  to  drift 
and  drag  lazily  along,  with  none  of  its  moun- 
tain brightness.  It  is  moving  slowly  toward 
annihilation,  and  it  seems  almost  semi-human 
in  a  consciousness  of  it.  Farther  inland  it 
flows  a  little  freer  and  has  more  power.  The 
salt  meadows  stretch  out  on  either  side  of  it,  and 
the  banks  have  lifted,  perhaps,  several  feet  in 
height.  These  banks  are  formed  of  mud 


RUNNING   WATEKS 


155 


and  held  firmly  by  the  roots  of  flags  and  grasses, 
their  edges  are  ragged  and  under-cut  by  water, 
and  upon  them  occasionally  grow  small  elms  or 
clumps  of  briars  and  alders.  The  bed  of  the 
river  is  muddy,  the  water  cloudy,  the  color  of 
it  beautiful  only  in  sky  reflection. 

As  we  ascend  the  river,  following  what  is 
called  its  Plain  Track,  the  banks  continue  to  rise, 
the  bed  becomes  sandy  or  pebble-strewn,  the 
stream  clearer,  the  character  of  the  ground  more 
substantial.  There  are  lifts  or  rises  in  the  land, 
that  seem  to  indicate  little  hills  that  have 
been  worn  down  by  many  centuries  of  water- 
wear  ;  and  these  are,  in  fact,  the  forerunners  of 
the  hills  which  we  soon  find  rising  on  either 
side  of  the  river.  A  hundred  miles  or  more  up 
the  stream,  the  hills  begin  to  jut  out  stronger. 
They  may  be  near  at  hand,  but  more  often  they 
are  several  miles  back  from  the  banks,  and  the 
river-bed  is  a  flat  plain  lying  in  between  them. 
The  land  may  be  cut  up  into  farms,  with  fields 
of  grain,  orchards,  and  white  houses  ;  there 
may  be  forests  here  and  there  that  grow  down 
to  the  water's  edge,  and  meadows  where  cattle 
roam  and  daisies  grow,  with  fords,  bridges,  and 
occasionally  a  lonely  mill.  The  water  does  not 
run  swiftly  as  yet,  but  it  winds  and  cuts  in  the  ; 


156 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


muddy  banks  and  goes  a  long  way  out  of  its 
course  to  get  around  a  piece  of  hard  ground. 
It  is  deep  in  places,  too,  and  has  a  lazy  fashion 
of  sleeping  in  flat  pools  under  the  shade  of 
some  great  oak  or  elm.  It  is  in  no  hurry  to 
be  gone,  and  yet  it  always  keeps  moving,  drift' 


We  meet  with  quite  a  change  in  river  char- 
acter when  what  is  called  the  Valley  Track  is 
reached.  It  seems  as  though  the  great  plain 
had  been  narrowed,  as  though  the  distant  hills 
had  grown  almost  to  mountains  and  stood 
closer  to  the  water's  edge,  and  the  flat  farms 
had  been  converted  into  side-hills  or  foot-hills. 
How  different  now  is  the  river  !  It  has  a  rocky 
or  stony  bed,  there  are  sharp,  confining  banks ; 
sometimes  there  are  cliffs,  about  the  bases  of 
which  the  clear  water  laps  and  gurgles.  The 
stream  is  now  running  swiftly  and  turns  in 
bends  and  angles,  flashing  light  and  color 
from  its  rippling  surface.  There  are  also 
rapids  at  different  places,  and  where  the  bank 
bends  sharply  we  meet  with  racing  water  on  one 
side,  and  the  deep  pool  with  its  back-water  on 
the  other  side.  Clumps  of  saplings  or  dank 
masses  of  bushes  fringe  the  sides  and  droop  into 
the  water,  and  occasionally  in  the  centre  of  the 


RUNNING  WATERS 


157 


stream  is  a  long,  thin  island  of  earth  and  rocks, 
its  top  capped  with  pines,  and  its  shores 
fringed  with  willows  turning  their  silvery 
leaves  in  the  wind.  The  prow  of  the  island,  so 
to  speak,  is  usually  of  hard  rock  or  compact 
gravel,  and  it  seems  to  cleave  the  river  in  twain, 
leaving  the  two  halves  to  spin  away  on  either 
side,  much  as  the  waters  seem  to  hurry  by  the 
sides  of  a  great  ship  at  full  speed. 

And  how  the  river  does  sweep  along  this  Valley 
Track  !  It  does  not  babble  and  chatter,  or  pitch 
and  toss,  like  a  shallow  brook,  yet  it  is  merely 
the  brook  come  to  maturity  and  sobered  by 
mass  and  volume.  Its  murmur  is  hoarser,  its 
bed  smoother,  its  course  less  interrupted  ;  yet 
still  the  life  of  it  is  in  its  movement.  Sweep 
and  glide,  sweep  and  glide  !  In  and  out  of  bend 
and  basin,  around  and  about  rocks  and  islands, 
now  fast,  now  slow,  now  complaining  over  shal- 
lows, now  soundless  over  depths,  regardless  of 
obstacles  or  difficulties,  it  keeps  moving,  keeps 
moving.  In  storm  and  calm,  under  sun,  moon, 
and  stars,  the  flow  is  forever  slipping  seaward. 

One  would  hardly  suspect  that  the  smooth, 
lapping  waves  that  feel  so  soft  to  the  hand 
trailed  in  the  water  from  the  side  of  a  canoe — 
those  waves  that  glitter  so  innocently  in  the 


158 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


sunlight — have  a  cutting  and  a  wearing  power 
that  nothing  can  withstand.  There  is  no  edge 
to  water  itself,  but  its  action  sets  grit  and 
gravel,  stones  and  even  bowlders  moving,  and 
the  teeth  of  these  are  very  sharp.  A  stream 
running  four  miles  an  hour  will  roll  down 
stones  nearly  three  inches  in  diameter,  and 
wherever  the  water  flows  and  particles  touch, 
there  is  wear  upon  the  land.  This  never-ceas- 
ing rub,  rub,  rub,  carves  deep  lines  in  the 
course  of  centuries  ;  and  so  it  is  that  the  smooth 
water  becomes  the  great  sculptor  of  the  earth. 
Standing  on  Storm  King  and  viewing  the  val- 
ley of  the  Hudson,  standing  on  the  Minnesota 
bluffs  and  overlooking  the  valley  of  the  Missis- 
sippi, standing  on  the  heights  above  the  Cafion 
of  the  Colorado,  we  gain  some  idea  of  what  lines 
this  great  sculptor  can  cut.  A  gulch  five  hun- 
dred or  a  thousand  feet  deep,  from  one  to  ten 
miles  broad,  and  from  a  thousand  to  two  thou- 
sand miles  long,  is  not  an  extraordinary  feat  for 
water  to  accomplish.  Along  the  sand-stone 
battlements  of  the  Mississippi  bluffs,  far  above 
the  present  bed  of  the  river,  the  trace  of  water- 
wear  is  still  plainly  visible  ;  and  centuries  ago 
the  little  hills,  the  inland  valleys,  the  clefts  and 
cloves  and  narrow  defiles  in  the  Catskill  Moun- 


RUNNING   WATERS 


159 


tains,  were  hollowed  out  and  rounded  by  the 
constant  touch  of  running  streams.  In  all 
countries  and  along  all  rivers  the  waters  have 
smoothed  and  rubbed  and  polished  the  sharp 
points  and  jutting  promontories  ;  through  many 
centuries  they  have  cut  and  worn  away  and 
modelled  anew  the  mountains  and  the  valleys, 
until  to-day  we  have  as  a  result  those  sweeping 
lines  of  beauty  which  mark  not  the  Hudson 
alone,  but  the  Seine,  the  Khine,  and  the  Dan- 
ube. 

These  great  carvings  of  the  earth's  surface 
were  probably  never  witnessed  by  any  one  gen- 
eration, or  even  race,  of  men.  The  work  was 
wrought  gradually,  and  yet,  within  the  river's 
bed,  one  can  see  evidences  of  erosion  going  on 
to-day.  "Water  has  not  lost  its  cutting  power.  If 
it  always  ran  straight  it  would  work  less  destruc- 
tion ;  but  the  river  is  very  susceptible  to  in- 
fluences, and  swings  first  to  one  side  and  then 
to  another  side,  much  like  the  pendulum  of 
a  clock.  A  current  shunted  over  against  one 
bank  rebounds  upon  the  opposite  bank  lower 
down ;  and  a  violent  push  given  to  the  water 
by  a  rocky  cliff  may  often  be  felt  in  oscillations 
for  miles  down  the  stream.  It  is  this  bound 
ap*  rebound,  from  shore  to  shore,  with  its  con- 


160 


NATURE   FOE   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


sequent  friction,  that  washes  away  the  banks, 
and  though  nature  has  a  way  of  protecting  the 
loose  earth  by  growing  vegetation  upon  it  close 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  yet  this  does  not  en- 
tirely save  it  from  wear,  nor  the  bed  of  the 
river  from  shifting  place. 

It  is  the  cutting  away  of  the  banks,  the 
making  of  crescent  curves  and  long  serpentine 
bends  that  give  the  river  some  of  its  most 
picturesque  features.  The  lines  of  the  shores 
are  but  repetitions  of  the  water  itself,  and  for 
every  high  cliff  that  breaks  the  flow  of  the 
shore  there  is  a  dash  and  a  turmoil  of  water 
that  break  the  downward  sweep  of  the  stream. 
These  river-lines  are  never  seen  so  distinctly 
under  the  foliage  of  summer  as  under  the  snow 
of  winter.  The  snow  muffles  and  covers 
everything  to  the  water's  edge.  Hill  and  val- 
ley, bush  and  tree,  bowlder  and  beach,  the 
overhang  of  the  bank,  the  abruptness  of  the 
river  island,  are  all  smoothed  into  graceful  con- 
tours. Upon  this  white  background  the  dark- 
looking  water  dances  and  flashes,  swirls  and 
ripples ;  and  the  unbroken  harmony  of  the 
lines,  the  continuity  of  the  movement  are  things 
of  beauty  unsurpassed  by  nature  in  any  of  her 
creations. 


RUNNING  WATERS 


161 


The  summer  foliage  blurs  the  graceful  cutting 
of  the  banks,  but  compensates  for  this  loss  by  a 
wealth  of  color.  The  stream  sparkles  between 
great  borders  of  green,  reflecting  the  blue  sky 
where  smooth,  and  turning  to  amethyst  where  it 
runs  over  shallows.  The  tree  and  the  bank,  the 
fern  and  the  burning  cardinal  flower  are  mirrored 
in  the  dark  pools,  the  cloud  shadow  and  the  sun- 
burst are  flung  across  the  moving  surface,  and 
the  path  of  the  moonlight  weaves  and  ravels 
there  as  on  the  sea.  Flexible  and  changeable 
as  the  sky  above  it,  the  river  glides  along, 
and,  chameleon-like,  takes  its  color  from  its 
surroundings.  It  may  be  whipped  with  rain- 
squalls  to-night,  but  to-morrow  it  will  show 
the  first  silvery  light  of  dawn  upon  its  shin- 
ing face,  and  whatever  momentary  effect  may 
mar  its  surface,  there  is  no  pause  in  the  smooth 
slipping  seaward. 

Even  in  winter,  when  the  river  is  covered  with 
ice,  the  murmur  of  the  water  beneath  says  it 
is  still  moving  toward  the  ocean.  Its  face  is 
masked,  its  color  is  gone,  even  its  reflection  is 
dimmed,  for  ice  unless  very  smooth  is  a  poor 
reflector ;  yet  still  for  all  its  desolate  state  and  the 
cold,  dark  ranks  of  trees  standing  along  its  banks, 
the  beauty  of  the  river  has  not  entirely  departed. 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN    SAKE 


The  green  hue  of  ice,  the  blue  of  the  snow  shad- 
ows, the  glisten  of  the  white  particles  in  full 
light,  are  brilliant ;  and  when  the  ice  breaks  and 
goes  jostling  down  the  stream  it  very  often  piles 
up  into  fantastic  masses  that  are  beautiful  in 
color  when  struck  by  the  sun. 

A  great  change  comes  over  the  stream  when 
the  murmur  of  its  water  becomes  the  surge  of 
an  inundating  freshet,  but  it  is  not  a  change 
for  the  better.  The  river  itself  is  lost  in  the 
flood,  and  both  its  channel  and  its  character  are 
temporarily  obliterated.  A  freshet,  such  as 
frequently  covers  the  Mississippi  "  bottoms " 
from  bluff  to  bluff,  is  interesting  perhaps,  but 
hardly  beautiful  to  look  upon.  It  is  only  a 
mad  rush  of  muddy  water.  All  the  streams  of 
the  watershed  are  swollen  beyond  their  banks, 
and  pour  into  the  river  a  turbid  mass  of  water 
filled  with  all  sorts  of  earth,  driftwood,  up- 
rooted trees,  and  the  like.  The  sweep  down- 
ward of  the  flood,  the  danger,  the  destruction, 
may  prove  attractive  to  some,  but  the  gen- 
eral impression  upon  the  average  person  is  rather 
dreary.  A  freshet  in  the  Missouri  and  the 
Yellowstone  is  still  more  dreary  and  dirty,  since 
it  is  nothing  but  a  solution  of  mud  which  soils 
i  everything  with  which  it  comes  in  contact. 


RUNNING   WATEKS 


163 


The  cloudiness  of  the  Missouri  is  the  natural 
result  of  its  draining  the  alkaline  plains ;  but 
the  turbid  condition  of  many  large  rivers  can 
be  traced  directly  to  civilization,  the  axe,  and 
the  plough. 

In  its  normal  condition,  and  as  it  appeared 
thirty  years  ago,  the  sun  never  shone  on  a  more 
beautiful  river  than  the  Upper  Mississippi. 
Then  the  tall  bluffs  along  the  stream  were  cov- 
ered with  timber,  the  bottom-lands  were  a  mass 
of  tropical  undergrowth  out  of  which  rose  ma- 
jestic elms,  oaks,  maples,  and  sycamores ;  the 
river  itself  was  clear  and  wound  its  bright  way 
over  sand-bars  and  by  many  little  islands. 
There  were  no  railways  stretching  along  the 
shores,  and  the  small  towns  that  stood  by 
the  river's  banks  had  hardly  made  an  impres- 
sion upon  the  wilderness.  All  was  quite  as  wild 
and  primeval  as  one  could  wish,  and  every 
traveller  standing  on  the  deck  of  the  river 
steamer,  as  he  ascended  that  stream  felt  the 
freshness  of  the  air,  the  brightness  of  the  light, 
the  unmarred,  the  unbroken  beauty  of  forest, 
bluff,  and  shining  water.  A  beautiful  river  it 
was,  and  never  more  impressive  than  at  night 
in  storm  when  the  pilot  at  the  wheel  was  find- 
ing the  channel- way  by  lightning  flashes,  and 


164 


NATUKE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


the  great  elms  in  the  bottoms  and  the  oaks 
on  the  bluffs  were  roaring  with  the  rush  of 
winds.  There  is  still  some  charm  of  wildness 
left  about  it  but  its  primitive  glory  has  de- 
parted. The  tall  timber  is  gone,  the  back- 
lying  prairies  have  known  the  plough,  the 
tributary  streams  draining  the  broken  ground 
run  mud,  and  there  is  little  purity  now  in  the 
water  that  flows  to  the  Mexican  Gulf.  Years 
ago  the  division  line  between  the  clear  waters 
of  the  Mississippi  and  the  clouded  waters  of 
Missouri,  where  they  met  at  St.  Louis,  could  be 
traced  for  miles,  but  now  one  stream  is  about 
as  turbid  as  the  other.  Man  is  the  prince  of 
destroyers,  and  if  there  is  one  spot  above  all 
others  where  he  has  fairly  revelled  in  destruc- 
tion it  is  western  North  America. 

But  all  the  destruction  and  all  the  muddy 
rivers  are  not  ours.  The  Hudson,  the  Sns- 
quehanna,  the  Connecticut,  and  many  other 
American  rivers  are  still  comparatively  pure. 
And  there  are  fouled  rivers  in  other  countries. 
I  have  vivid  memories  of  different  summers 
spent  beside  the  Thames,  the  Seine,  the 
Rhine,  the  Danube,  and  the  Arno.  The 
Danube  and  the  Rhine  are  always  referred 
to  as  "blue"  by  the  poets  and  the  guide- 


RUNNING   WATERS 


book  makers,  but  I  never  saw  either  of  them 
that  hue.  They  are  usually  a  drab  color, 
and  sometimes  after  rain,  yellowish  or  brown- 
ish. In  local  hue  they  are  not  attractive 
to  look  upon,  but  muddy  water  does  not  make 
a  bad  reflector  of  the  sky.  Indeed,  the  Ehine 
and  the  Seine  are  often  beautiful  in  their  re- 
flections and  show  us  many  odd,  amalgamated 
colors.  For  clouded  water  will  not  reflect  the 
same  hues  as  clear  water.  Even  the  brown- 
hued  water  in  the  wood-lakes  of  America  will 
darken  the  green  of  the  overhanging  leaves  in 
reflection,  and  make  the  white  flower  of  the 
dogwood  appear  of  a  grayish  tone  ;  and  a  muddy, 
yellow-hued  river  like  the  Tiber  will  sometimes 
cast  pinkish  reflections  and  occasionally  toss 
up  little  crests  that  appear  cream-white.  The 
Thames,  too,  takes  on  an  infinite  variety  of  col- 
ors under  different  lights ;  and  in  cloudy  weather 
the  Arno  is  just  as  fitful,  just  as  changeable. 

There  is  a  third  stage  in  the  river's  course 
remaining  to  be  traced — the  Mountain  Track. 
It  is  usually  called  the  first  stage,  but  for  the 
sake  of  convenience  we  are  following  up  from 
the  sea  and  reversing  the  order.  In  its  Valley 
and  Plain  Tracks  the  river  remains  a  river, 
but  in  its  mountain  course  it  is  usually  little 


River 
reflection. 


166 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


more  than  a  brook.  And  a  brook  is,  or  at 
least  may  be,  a  river  in  miniature.  It  usualN 
comes  from  the  hills,  but  it  may  come  from  an 
upland  lake  and  creep  across  a  flat  meadow  in  a 
stupid  way,  lying  lazily  under  bridges  and  mak- 
ing pools  for  cattle  and  ducks  at  every  bend. 
Again,  it  may  wind  down  through  some  heavily 
timbered  country,  its  passage  impeded  by  drift- 
wood and  fallen  logs  (like  so  many  of  the  Adi- 
rondack streams),  with  little  beauty  to  com- 
mend it  save  its  golden-brown  coloring  taken 
from  decayed  vegetation.  Still  again,  it  may 
come  off  the  moors  and  flow  through  the  peat- 
beds  of  Scotland  on  its  way  to  some  loch,  pass- 
ing by  great  bowlders  in  the  bed  and  scrub- 
timber  on  the  banks,  without  being  strikingly 
beautiful  save  in  the  ale-like  hue  of  the  water 
after  a  heavy  rain. 

But  none  of  these  brooks  quite  realizes  our 
idea  of  a  mountain-stream.  The  true  brook  is 
to  be  found  in  the  Catskills,  in  the  Berkshires, 
sometimes  in  the  Alleghanies,  the  Blue  Ridge, 
or  the  Rocky  Mountains.  The  local  commu- 
nity usually  gives  it  the  commonplace  but  de- 
scriptive name  of  "  Clear  Brook  "  or  "  Stony 
Brook."  At  its  mouth  it  often  joins  the  river, 
much  as  the  river  joins  the  sea — that  is,  with 


RUNNING  WATERS 


167 


some  heaviness  of  movement — but  higher  up 
in  the  hills  it  is  all  rush,  vivacity,  and  sparkle. 
It  chatters  and  gurgles  and  swishes  and  swirls 
all  day  long,  working  its  way  in  and  out,  over 
and  under  bed  bowlders,  waterfalls,  and  deep 
pools.  Where  it  runs  through  meadow  or  low- 
land, it  keeps  changing  and  moving  its  banks 
continually.  Like  the  larger  stream,  the  swing 
in  of  the  water  toward  the  shore  hollows  out  a 
pool  or  deep  eddy,  and  the  sand  removed  from 
that  bank  is  always  deposited  a  few  yards  below 
and  on  the  opposite  bank,  where  a  bar  is  form- 
ing. 

This  shift  of  bed  is  not  so  noticeable  farther 
up  in  the  hills,  where  the  brook  runs  between 
shores  of  rock.  The  change  in  the  confining 
banks  is  slight,  but  now  there  is  wear  of  an- 
other sort.  The  waterfall  keeps  cutting  back 
into  the  rock,  the  pool  or  basin  beneath  the 
fall  keeps  deepening,  the  bed  along  which  sand 
and  stones  are  hurried  keeps  sinking,  and  the 
vegetation  year  by  year  creeps  lower  down  to 
cover  the  bare  shores  left  by  the  receding  water. 
The  erosion  of  the  brook  tends  toward  deepen- 
ing the  ravine  and  producing  what  is  called 
the  gorge  or  the  glen.  The  wear  here  is,  in 
proportion,  the  wear  of  the  whole  basin  from 


In  the 

ravine. 


168 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


mountain  to  ocean.  The  water  cuts  its  bed 
with  rolling  rocks,  and  the  rocks  themselves 
that  fall  into  the  brook  as  bowlders  are  ground 
to  sand  and  silt  before  they  reach  the  sea.  The 
stream  is  a  grinding  mill  in  every  part  of  it, 
and  no  wonder  that  the  bed  cuts  back  and  cuts 
deep  in  the  glen  where  the  current  runs  so 
swiftly. 

The  mountain-brook  with  its  dash  and  flash, 
its  abrupt  banks,  its  overhanging  foliage  so  cool 
and  quiet  in  the  heat  of  summer,  is  the  most  de- 
lightful of  all  nature  studies.  Especially  do  we 
find  it  so  if  we  come  upon  it  fresh  from  months 
of  living  in  the  city  and  spend  our  first  day  of 
vacation  tracing  the  water  to  its  source.  Every 
feature  of  it  seems  so  fresh,  so  instinct  with 
life.  The  stream  in  its  irregular  bed  twist- 
ing about  among  bowlders,  the  rocky  dripping 
banks  covered  with  mosses,  twining  vines,  and 
rank  ferns,  the  break  of  sunlight  through  the 
foliage,  how  very  beautiful  they  all  seem  !  On 
such  a  day,  in  such  a  place,  the  joy  of  being 
alive — of  simply  breathing,  seeing,  hearing, 
touching — is  intense.  How  long  we  stand  look- 
ing at  the  shiver  and  tremble  of  the  water  run- 
ning over  a  flat  rock  !  How  long  we  sit  beside 
the  waterfall  watching  the  plunge  of  the  brook 


RUNNING   WATERS 


169 


into  the  dark  pool  where  the  trout  lie !  The 
reflection  of  the  trees,  the  delicacy  of  the  trans- 
parent sky,  the  light,  the  shade,  the  flashing 
line  of  the  brook  far  down  the  glen,  what  do  they 
not  say  to  us  of  life  and  beauty  !  Very  pretty 
in  its  bend,  very  lovely  in  its  light  and  color,  is 
the  water  of  the  fall  as  it  is  pushed  out  and 
over  its  ledge  of  rock  into  the  air.  If  it  has 
no  great  pitch  down,  its  curve  is  unbroken. 
Where  it  begins  to  bend  there  is  a  bar  of  sun- 
light running  across  it  bright  as  silver,  which 
changes  only  with  the  sun,  and  where  it  plunges 
into  the  pool  there  is  a  dizzy  dance  of  bubbles 
coming  and  going  as  tiny  spots  of  light. 

This  little  waterfall,  so  delicate  in  its  play,  we 
may  watch  for  hours,  and  afterward  hear  its 
low  murmur  in  our  ears  whenever  we  choose  to 
think  about  it ;  but  its  charm  soon  vanishes 
when  it  becomes  a  cataract.  Sometimes  the 
descent  of  the  fall  is  so  great,  as  in  the  case  of 
many  Yellowstone  and  Yosemite  streams,  that 
the  water  is  blown  out  and  shattered  into  mist 
before  it  reaches  the  ground.  That  seems  to  be 
in  a  way  mere  annihilation.  The  Staubbach,  in 
the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  is  thus  practically 
destroyed.  Its  wave  through  the  air  in  falling 
is  graceful  and  is  much  admired ;  but  I  am 


170 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


frank  to  confess  that  it  always  impressed  me  as 
one  of  nature's  lamentable  accidents.  I  am  also 
frank  to  confess  that  no  great  waterfall  or  cat- 
aract ever  gave  me  anything  but  a  cold  chill. 
Niagara  is  merely  a  great  horror  of  nature  like 
a  lava-stream  pouring  into  the  sea,  or  a  volcanic 
explosion  like  that  of  Krakatoa.  Grand  it  is 
in  its  mass,  and  sometimes  beautiful  in  the  col- 
oring of  the  rising  spray  shot  with  sunlight ; 
but  its  chief  impression  is  one  of  power  unre- 
strained and  catastrophe  unavoidable.  It  is 
nothing  less  than  nature  committing  suicide. 

The  Catskill  or  the  New  England  brook  is  per- 
haps the  most  enjoyable  of  all  the  small  streams, 
because  of  its  purity,  its  wildness,  its  tangled 
undergrowth,  and  its  vivacious  motion.  It  has 
many  beauties  of  line  and  also  countless  varieties 
of  color.  Not  the  greens  of  tree  and  grass  and 
moss,  not  the  glow  of  mountain-flowers  or  the 
flare  of  autumn  foliage,  not  the  blue-and-white 
of  sky-patches — not  any  of  these  alone  ;  but  all 
of  them  together,  mingled  in  the  delicate 
reflections  of  the  brook  water.  The  local  color 
of  the  stream  and  the  color  of  the  objects 
reflected  struggle  for  mastery.  Sometimes  one 
conquers  and  sometimes  the  other ;  but  more 
often  they  make  a  surface-compromise,  each 


EUNNING  WATERS 


171 


giving  up  something  to  form  a  compound  that 
is  the  coloring  neither  of  the  sky  nor  of  the 
brook,  but  a  beautiful  blend  of  both. 

In  the  winter  the  brook  is  ice-bound,  and  its 
only  sound  is  the  gurgle  that  tells  where  the 
water  is  still  running  away  to  the  sea.  The 
first  fall  of  snow  in  the  glen,  when  the  hemlock 
branches  hang  heavy,  and  the  fern  and  bowlders 
lie  white  and  still  beside  the  dark  running 
brook,  certainly  produces  the  picturesque ;  but 
after  the  water  freezes  and  the  snows  deepen, 
the  charm  of  the  brook  has  flown.  It  is  seen 
at  its  best  in  the  hot  months  of  summer,  when 
the  moss  is  thick  on  the  rocks  and  the  shadows 
are  dark  on  the  pool. 

Purity  is  always  the  essence  of  the  small 
stream,  but  purity  is  an  impossibility  where  the 
drained  surface  is  not  rocky  or  sandy.  The 
rapid  run  of  water  over  clay  or  black  loam  can 
produce  only  muddiness.  Such  is  the  result  in 
the  brooks  that  come  down  from  the  alkaline 
plains  of  the  West,  and  in  many  of  the  streams 
emptying  into  the  Mississippi  and  the  Ohio. 
The  brooks  of  Scotland  draining  the  peat-beds 
and  heather  are  naturally  dark,  but  running  in 
rocky  channels  they  have  a  tendency  to  clear 
themselves.  The  Swiss  and  German  brooks  are 


172 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


generally  bright  and  clear,  and  not  unlike  the 
Catskill  stream.  Indeed,  I  am  not  so  patriotic 
that  I  would  arrogate  all  purity  to  my  own 
country.  I  have  described  the  Catskill  brook 
only  because  it  is  typical  of  the  river  on  its 
Mountain  Track.  Fortunately  there  are  many 
streams  like  it  on  the  face  of  the  globe. 

The  source  of  a  stream  is  often  the  cause  of 
some  disappointment  to  the  finder  of  it.  Some- 
times it  fulfils  expectation,  and  is  a  small  basin 
of  bubbling  water  rising  from  beneath  a  huge 
rock.  Its  overflow  forms  the  rivulet  that  finally 
develops  into  the  brook.  The  water  in  such  a 
case  usually  comes  from  a  subterranean  spring 
and  flows  cold  and  clear,  following  some  vein  or 
fissure  in  the  rock.  In  Scotland  the  source  is 
usually  a  "  well-eye,"  as  in  Switzerland  a  glaci- 
er ;  but  in  America  the  beginning  of  the  stream 
is  not  always  so  simple  or  so  poetic.  Many 
of  the  brooks  when  traced  to  their  origin  are 
found  to  come  from  small  lakes  fed  by  subter- 
ranean springs,  or  more  often  from  a  weedy, 
rush-grown  marsh,  which  acts  as  a  catch-basin 
for  many  small  surface  drainings.  The  haunt  of 
the  coot  and  the  frog  is  hardly  the  ideal  birth- 
place of  the  clear,  tossing  brook,  yet  a  great 
many  streams  come  from  just  such  sedgy  pools. 


BUNKING  WATERS 


173 


The  feeders  of  the  pond  are  the  tiny  little 
threads  of  water  that  meet  and  join  forces  in 
pushing  under  grass  and  around  stones,  until 
a  union  of  many  of  them  makes  the  trickling 
stream.  Originally  these  little  threads  are 
formed  by  the  drops  creeping  along  the  seams  of 
a  rock  and  oozing  out  at  the  base,  or  they  may 
come  from  the  sloping  surface  of  some  ledge 
hidden  under  several  feet  of  earth  and  moss. 
The  earth  and  moss  act  as  a  sponge  to  catch  the 
rain,  which  finally  settling  to  the  bottom,  runs 
out  along  the  bed  rock.  Small  enough  in 
themselves  all  these  contributors  of  water  taken 
together  make  the  rivulet,  which  supplies  the 
brook,  which  in  turn  supplies  the  river.  The 
volume  of  the  downpour  is  cumulative  from 
the  mountain  to  the  shore,  until  at  last  the 
distillation  of  the  hills,  having  passed  through 
all  its  stages  of  life,  spreads  fan-like  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  sea  and  is  lost  forever. 


TheHmtUt. 


Namet  of 
teas  and 
lakes. 


CHAPTER  IX 

STILL  WATERS 

ALMOST  any  sheet  of  enclosed  water  is  a  sea, 
a  lake,  or  a  pond,  as  the  dwellers  beside  it 
choose  to  name  it.  The  nomenclature,  as  ap- 
plied, is  often  very  misleading.  Thns,  for  in- 
stance, we  have  the  term  "Sea  of  Galilee " 
applied  to  a  lake  fifteen  miles  long  by  eight 
miles  broad,  whereas  "  Lake  Superior  "  desig- 
nates an  inland  sea  covering  an  area  of  thirty-two 
thousand  square  miles,  and  having  no  more  the 
characteristics  of  a  lake  than  Galilee  has  of  a 
sea.  Any  body  of  water,  no  matter  whether  fresh 
or  salt,  where  we  are  at  any  time  out  of  sight 
of  land,  or  have  a  water-line  for  a  horizon,  has 
at  least  one  strong  feature  of  the  ocean — immen- 
sity. The  great  American  lakes,  as  we  stand  up- 
on their  shores,  stretch  out  to  the  horizon-rim 
without  a  break,  and  we  have  small  reason  to 
suppose  we  are  not  on  the  New  England  coast 
looking  over  the  Atlantic  toward  Europe.  True 
enough,  these  great  lakes  have  a  different  smell, 
174 


STILL   WATEES 


175 


and  are  not  so  blue  as  the  ocean  ;  but  the 
beaches,  the  rocks,  the  dunes  of  the  shore,  the 
break  of  the  waves,  the  reach  of  the  sky,  are 
substantially  the  same  as  those  of  the  greater 
body. 

Now  a  lake  is,  or  at  least  should  be  considered, 
a  body  of  water  surrounded  by  land,  and  the 
name  should  never  be  applied  to  a  body  of  wa- 
ter so  large  that  land  can  from  any  point  be  lost 
to  view.  A  sea  is,  or  should  be  considered, 
another  body  of  water  surrounded  by  land,  but 
so  large  that  one  does  not  feel  its  confining 
shores.  An  ocean  is,  or  should  be  considered,  a 
sea  of  such  expanse  that  it  is  not  surrounded  by 
land,  but  rather  seems  to  surround  the  land. 
The  fundamental  distinction  here  is,  of  course, 
one  of  size,  the  lake  being  a  reservoir  for  a  range 
of  hills,  and  the  ocean  a  reservoir  for  the  whole 
earth.  But  this  matter  of  size  has  great  influ- 
ence upon  our  tastes  and  preferences.  We 
have,  perhaps,  a  dread  of  the  ocean,  because  it 
seems  so  vast  and  incomprehensible  ;  but  we 
are  fond  of  the  lake  because  it  is  small  enough 
to  be  readily  grasped  by  the  imagination.  The 
ocean  in  its  mystery  and  indefinite  reach  has 
about  it  the  breath  of  the  sublime,  but  the  lake 
in  its  simplicity  is  merely  beautiful  and  charm- 


176 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


ing.  Again,  the  ocean  is  ever  in  motion.  Its 
surface  may  be  smooth,  but  there  is  always  the 
heave  of  deep  swells  beneath  the  ebb  or  flow  of 
tides,  and  day  and  night,  year  in  and  year  out, 
it  is  continually  beating  out  its  surge  on  the 
shore.  Not  so  the  lake.  It  is  ruffled  only  by 
passing  storms  and  winds.  When  the  winds 
die  out  it  lies  still  in  the  sunlight,  and  not  a 
ripple  shakes  its  serenity. 

The  small  mountain-lake,  shut  in  by  shores  of 
rock  or  timber,  is  undoubtedly  the  most  beau- 
tiful type  of  the  still  waters.  If  we  are  on 
ground  high  enough  above  it  to  overlook  the 
whole  expanse,  it  will  appear,  when  the  mists 
are  creeping  over  its  surface  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, like  a  mirror  with  breath-marks  upon  it. 
At  noon,  if  the  surface  is  agitated,  each  wave 
will  glitter  like  a  harlequin's  spangles  ;  and  if 
smooth,  it  will  reflect  whatever  sky  is  above  it. 
At  evening  it  may  reflect  the  pink  and  gold 
clouds  in  the  zenith,  and  when  they  have 
burned  out,  it  may  deepen  into  a  dark  purple 
floor  upon  which  the  stars  are  spattered  in 
golden  spots.  Whenever  looked  at  from  a 
height,  it  seems  like  some  precious  elixir  held 
in  an  emerald  chalice — a  gem  set  in  a  frame  of 
hills  and  forests.  When  we  are  down  close  to 


STILL   WATERS 


177 


it  the  likeness  is  lost,  or  rather  changed,  for 
now  it  looks  like  a  flat  arena  of  blue-steel,  and 
the  tiers  of  hills  may  sweep  around  it  like  the 
benches  of  a  Roman  circus. 

The  cliff  with  its  feet  in  the  water,  its  sides 
dripping  with  the  moisture  of  mosses  and  its 
top  tufted  with  pines,  the  cave  with  its  shad- 
owed entrance  and  sunken  rocks,  the  gorge 
where  the  brook  comes  into  the  lake,  the  little 
island,  the  pebbly  strand,  the  overhanging  trees 
and  bushes,  are  all  essentials  of  the  mountain- 
lake.  Even  more  necessary  than  these,  per- 
haps, is  the  purity  of  the  water — a  necessity 
that  is  generally  met  For  though  brooks 
may  empty  sand  and  mud  into  it  there  is 
no  great  motion  of  currents  through  the 
lake,  and  the  brook  water  soon  drops  its  bur- 
den to  the  bottom.  Lake  water  is  also,  as  a 
rule,  quite  clear — so  clear  that  it  will  not, 
unless  ruffled,  take  cognizance  of  a  shadow, 
and  will  register  sky  reflection  with  the  utmost 
delicacy.  It  may  have  a  greenish  or  bluish  local 
color,  which  we  can  see  when  the  wind  turns 
up  its  surface  in  little  waves,  and  we  may  see 
this  local  color  again  at  times  by  looking 
straight  down  into  the  lake  depths  ;  but  there 
is  usually  no  cloudiness  about  the  water.  After 


Lake 

feature*. 


Purity  of 
lake  water. 


178 


NATUKE  FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


a  storm  the  waters  near  shore  may  be  beaten 
brown  or  yellow  by  the  waves,  and  in  the  spring 
the  lake  may  be  turbid  with  the  wash  of  heavy 
rains ;  but  these  are  only  temporary  disturb- 
ances. It  soon  returns  to  its  normal  clearness 
and  purity. 

And  purity  combined  with  freshness  and 
wildness,  are  the  characteristics  that  excite  an 
enthusiasm  about  lake  beauty  in  the  breast  of 
almost  everyone.  We  all  feel  it.  A  day  spent 
in  coasting  the  shores  in  a  canoe  is  not  only  a 
revelation  of  nature  but  of  ourselves.  The 
drift  along  under  the  cliff,  the  coolness  and 
the  shade  from  bank  and  bush,  the  mysterious 
depths  with  sunken  rocks  and  water-logged 
tree-trunks,  the  shoals  of  sand  and  pebbles, 
the  little  bays  with  pickerel  grass  and  lily- 
pads,  the  mosses  of  the  gorge,  wake  memories 
perhaps  of  an  earlier,  a  simpler,  and  a  nobler 
life.  We  are  back  to  the  earth  again  and  the 
elements  are  around  us.  The  human  animal, 
caged  in  cities  and  taught  the  tricks  of  civil- 
ization, can  never  forget  the  nature  that  sent 
him  forth. 

But  the  mountain-lake  has  other  charms 
that  are  perhaps  not  so  superficial  or  so  sen- 
timental. Its  color  in  particular  is  of  mar- 


STILL   WATERS 


179 


vellous  complexity,  and  if  one  tries  to  trace 
the  cause  or  give  the  reason  for  this  or  that 
affect,  he  soon  finds  himself  involved  in  many 
contradictions.  The  determination  of  the  local 
hue  of  lake  water  is,  to  start  with,  a  difficult 
task.  It  may  be  almost  any  color,  taking  its 
hue  from  the  vegetable  or  mineral  matter  car- 
ried in  solution.  Draining  a  marshy  or  heavily 
wooded  district,  it  may  be  brownish  or  amber- 
hued,  as  in  many  of  the  smaller  Adirondack 
and  Scotch  lakes ;  if  the  shores  are  rocky,  or 
the  country  drained  is  hard  and  mountainous, 
the  hue  of  the  water  will  be  blue  or  bluish- 
green,  as  one  may  see  in  the  Alpine  lakes,  par- 
ticularly Lake  Geneva.  Again,  in  the  Yellow- 
stone region  the  lakes  are  often  of  varied  and 
brilliant  hues  owing  to  the  earth  or  minerals  in 
the  water. 

But  the  actual  color  of  the  water  when  taken 
up  in  a  vessel,  and  the  apparent  color  lying  in 
the  bed  of  the  lake,  are  two  different  things. 
Local  color,  especially  if  it  be  delicate,  is  in- 
fluenced, changed,  oftentimes  utterly  destroyed 
so  far  as  our  vision  is  concerned,  by  back- 
grounds and  reflections.  For  instance,  the  bed 
or  bottom  of  a  lake,  where  the  water  is  shallow, 
may  decide  the  apparent  hue,  just  as  the  green 


180 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


grass  may  decide  the  coloring  of  a  shadow  fall- 
ing upon  it.  Pure  water  is  in  itself  a  most  ex- 
quisite and  subtle  blue,  but  spread  over  a  bed 
of  yellow  sand  under  sunlight  it  may  appear 
yellow  or  perhaps  greenish  in  hue.  Even  when 
the  water  is  too  deep  to  see  the  bottom,  the 
latter  may  have  some  determining  influence  on 
the  color  by  mingling  with  or  illuminating  it. 

Reflection  is,  however,  the  more  powerful 
factor  in  leading  us  astray  as  regards  local  hue. 
Smooth  water,  like  a  mirror,  is  always  throwing 
back  from  its  face  some  likeness  in  light,  form, 
and  color  of  whatever  happens  to  be  above  it, 
be  it  rock,  tree,  bank,  or  sky.  The  water  may 
be  green  in,  let  us  say  Lake  Placid,  but  the  re- 
flection of  the  clear  sky  from  its  face  makes  it 
appear  blue.  Even  when  the  surface  is  agi- 
tated and  the  reflection  is  broken,  there  is  always 
more  or  less  flashing  light  from  the  sky  along  the 
tiny  facets  on  the  backs  of  the  waves.  We  can 
only  get  the  local  hue  by  shutting  out  the  re- 
flected hue.  A  gray  sky  with  a  ruffled  surface 
dispels  or  breaks  reflection  sufficiently  to  give 
us  some  notion  of  local  color  ;  and  it  is  during 
rain-storms  and  squally  weather  on  sea,  lake, 
and  river  that  we  gain  the  truest  knowledge  of 
the  actual  colors  of  waters.  Sometimes,  under 


STILL   WATERS 


181 


lake-banks  or  under  the  shade  of  an  overhang- 
ing tree  that  completely  shuts  out  the  sky,  we 
can  see  the  hue  of  the  water  ;  but  here  again 
we  have  to  reckon  with  the  reflected  green  of 
the  tree  or  the  color  of  the  bottom.  We  must 
look  through  the  reflection,  and  not  at  it.  Even 
then,  and  under  the  most  favorable  conditions, 
we  are  often  deceived  into  thinking  the  water 
one  color,  when  in  reality  it  is  another.  And 
just  here  begins  another  complication. 

I  said  that  smooth  water,  like  a  mirror,  is 
always  throwing  back  from  its  face  "  some  like- 
ness "  in  light,  form,  and  color  of  whatever  is 
above  it.  Its  light  is  always  feebler  than  the 
original,  but  its  color  is  almost  an  exact  like- 
ness, provided  the  water  is  very  clear  and  pure. 
The  tall  cumulus  cloud,  the  blue  sky,  the  dawn, 
the  sunset,  and  the  rainbow,  are  all  given  in  the 
lake  reflection  with  accuracy,  but  with  perhaps 
more  delicacy  than  in  the  original.  This  is  par- 
ticularly true  of  the  sky  and  the  clouds.  The 
hue  in  the  reflection  is  more  refined  and  silk-tis- 
sued, and  the  lines  of  the  clouds  are  less  posi- 
tively defined.  Now  deeply  colored  or  darkened 
water  will  reflect  a  likeness,  too,  reflect  it  in 
form  quite  as  sharply  as  clear  water,  but  the 
color  will  also  be  deepened  and  darkened.  On 


182 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


a  peat-water  lake,  like  Loch  Laggan  in  Scot- 
land, the  white  clouds  show  gray,  the  gray 
clouds  look  sooty  or  smoky,  and  the  cerulean 
blue  of  the  sky  turns  to  deep  ultramarine.  On 
Loch  Dhu,  a  dark  little  lake  in  the  Grampians, 
surrounded  by  high  hills  covered  with  nothing 
but  bluish  stone  and  yellow-green  grass,  one 
can  see  in  the  wave  reflections,  the  grass 
turned  to  dark  orange  and  the  stones  to  cobalt- 
blue.  Dark  local  tones  in  the  water  will 
darken  the  colors  in  reflection,  and  light  tones 
will  lighten  them.  A  muddy  or  yellow  lake  will 
not  reflect  a  brilliant  hue  of  any  kind  without 
bleaching  it.  As  for  waters  neither  light  nor 
dark,  but  nevertheless  positive  in  hue,  they 
will  often  tinge  the  reflection  with  their  own 
intensity.  Thus  the  waters  in  the  Venetian 
canals  reflect  the  side  of  a  black  gondola,  but 
the  reflection  is  not  black  ;  it  is  greenish — the 
local  color  of  Venetian  water.  Again  in  de- 
termining hues,  local  or  otherwise,  much  de- 
pends upon  the  angle  from  which  lights,  colors, 
and  reflections  are  seen.  From  one  point  of 
view  the  lake  may  be  all  local  color  ;  from  an- 
other point  of  view  it  may  be  all  sky  reflection. 
So  that  when  the  disturbing  elements  taken  to- 
gether are  considered,  the  problem  for  deter- 


STILL   WATERS 


183 


mination  will  prove  anything  but  easy.  But  I 
must  mention  just  one  more  complication  that 
should  be  simple  of  solution,  and  yet  is  not 
always  found  so. 

In  studying  effects  on  the  water  we  are  prone 
to  confuse  shadows  with  reflections.  They  are 
two  separate  things,  though  in  effect  they  may 
sometimes  be  merged  into  one.  That  is  to  say, 
a  tree  may  cast  its  reflection  in  the  water  and 
its  shadow  on  the  bank  ;  but  if  the  sun  is  just 
right,  both  the  shadow  and  the  reflection  may 
fall  in  the  water,  as  in  the  case  of  an  over- 
hanging bough  or  the  arch  of  a  bridge.  The 
shadow  in  such  cases  is  usually  absorbed  by  the 
reflection.  Shadows  upon  water  are  usually 
very  feeble,  and  where  the  water  is  deep  and 
perfectly  clear  they  are  hardly  noticeable  at 
all.  If  the  water  is  shallow  or  muddy,  the 
shadow  is  stronger,  because  it  has  some  back- 
ground to  fall  upon  ;  but  even  then  it  is  not  so 
strong  as  when  falling  upon  ground  or  grass. 
On  deep  water  the  shadow  is  seen  as  a  thin, 
smoky  form  upon  the  surface,  whereas  the  re- 
flection is  seen  receding  into  the  depths.  And 
at  certain  angles  the  shadow  does  not  appear  at 
all.  If  one  is  standing  on  the  bank  of  a  pool 
with  a  small  tree  beside  him  and  the  sun  is  be- 


184 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


hind  him,  he  will  see  his  own  shadow  as  well  as 
that  of  the  tree  cast  upon  the  water,  but  he 
will  see  no  reflection.  His  friend,  standing  on 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  pool  and  looking  tow- 
ard him,  will  see  no  shadows,  but  in  their  place 
the  reflections  of  man  and  tree.  A  canal  in 
Amsterdam,  with  houses  and  trees  on  either 
bank,  will  often  mingle  shadows  and  reflec- 
tions, but  to  us  it  is  merely  a  case  of  shadow  on 
one  side  and  reflection  on  the  opposite  side.  If 
we  stand  in  the  centre  of  a  bridge  and  look  up 
the  canal,  we  shall  see  little  of  either  houses  or 
trees  in  the  water ;  we  shall  see  only  the  long 
reflection  of  the  sky. 

On  the  lake  the  strongest  reflections  are  al- 
ways to  be  found  under  some  overhanging  bank 
or  in  the  shadow  of  some  thick -leaved  tree  ;  and 
the  darkest  reflections  of  all  are  seen  at  night 
when  the  only  illumination  upon  the  water 
comes  from  the  sky  and  the  stars.  Very  beau- 
tiful are  these  night  reflections  seen  from  a 
boat.  Years  ago,  when  the  lakes  and  streams 
of  Minnesota  were  in  their  prime,  and  the  great 
elms  arched  the  sloughs  winding  from  lake  to 
lake,  the  canoe  trail  at  night  was  picked  out  by 
the  small  spots  of  sky  showing  on  the  water 
like  loopholes  in  the  vast  density  of  reflected 


STILL  WATEES 


185 


foliage.  As  the  canoe  slipped  over 
sky-lighted  spots,  the  stars  could  be  seen 
trembling  for  a  moment  in  the  water,  and 
then  the  sweep  of  the  paddle  would  scatter 
them  into  a  thousand  tiny  flashings.  A  similar 
effect  can  be  seen  almost  any  night  on  the 
mountain-lake  where  trees  or  banks  overhang 
the  water. 

It  is,  perhaps,  necessary  to  explain  still 
further  the  statement  that  water  is  always 
throwing  back  from  its  surface  "  some  like- 
ness "  of  whatever  is  above  it.  The  likeness  is 
not  always  and  invariably  exact  in  form,  any 
more  than  it  is  in  color  or  light.  In  the  first 
place,  the  reflection  is  always  the  reverse  of  the 
original,  as  is  a  human  face  in  a  mirror.  That 
is  to  say,  left  is  right,  and  right  is  left.  Sec- 
ondly, the  background  of  the  reflection  may  be 
different  from  the  original.  Standing  on  a 
bank  twenty  feet  high  and  looking  across  water 
fifty  feet  to  a  low  shore,  we  may  discover  that  a 
bush  overhanging  the  water  has  a  green  meadow 
for  a  background,  but  in  its  reflected  image  it 
has  a  blue  sky  for  a  background.  Thirdly,  the 
tint  or  shade  of  this  same  bush  in  the  reflection  is 
not  the  tint  or  shade  of  the  original ;  and  this 
for  another  cause  than  local  color  in  the  water. 


186 


NATURE  FOE  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


We  are  looking  down  upon  the  bush  and  see 
sunlight  upon  its  green  leaves  ;  but  the  reflec- 
tion shows  us  that  under-portion  of  the  bush 
which  is  in  shadow. 

The  rule  governing  our  perception  of  reflec- 
tions is  a  familiar  one  :  The  angle  of  reflection 
is  always  equal  to  the  angle  of  incidence.  Prac- 
tically applied  to  our  illustration,  this  means 
that  standing  twenty  feet  above  the  bush  and 
fifty  feet  back  from  it,  we  see  in  reflection  just 
what  we  should  see  in  the  original  did  we  stand 
twenty  feet  beloiv  the  bush  and  fifty  feet  back 
from  it.  Again,  if  standing  twenty  feet  above 
the  surface  we  can  see  a  portion  of  a  mountain- 
peak  reflected  in  the  water,  then  we  could  see 
just  that  much  of  the  peak  itself  if  twenty  feet 
below  the  surface.  Every  Swiss  tourist  has  seen 
Mt.  Blanc  mirrored  in  the  Lake  of  Geneva, 
though  the  two  are  some  forty  miles  apart. 
The  reason  is  that  Mt.  Blanc  is  some  three  miles 
high.  By  increasing  our  height  we  see  less  of 
the  reflection  in  proportion,  as  by  increasing 
our  depth  we  see  less  of  the  original.  At  the 
bottom  of  a  well,  looking  up,  we  should  be  able 
to  see  only  the  sides  of  the  well  and  the  sky  ;  if 
at  the  top  of  the  well,  looking  down,  we  should 
see  the  same  things  in  reflection. 


STILL   WATERS 


187 


Anything  that  disturbs  the  smoothness  of  the 
water  also  disturbs  the  clearness  of  the  reflec- 
tion. A  breeze  may  cause  it  to  disappear,  and  at 
the  same  time  may  make  the  shadow  more  appar- 
ent. Rough  water  will  show  the  shadow  of  a 
flying  cloud  almost  as  clearly  as  a  field  of  grain 
or  a  hill-side  meadow,  without  giving  us  more 
than  a  hint  of  the  cloud's  reflection.  When 
water  is  slightly  ruffled  the  reflection  does  not 
disappear  at  once,  but  is  lightened  or  silvered 
in  color,  and  at  the  same  time  it  is  elongated. 
This  everyone  must  have  observed  at  night,  with 
the  moonlight  falling  on  the  lake.  When  the 
surface  is  perfectly  calm  the  moon  shows  in  the 
water  like  a  round  ball ;  but  as  soon  as  the  sur- 
face is  ruffled  we  have  the  elongation  of  the  re- 
flection into  that  flickering  trail  of  light  called 
the  Angels'  Pathway.  Elongation  is  seen  again 
in  the  reflection  of  the  artificial  lights  in  a  har- 
bor, where  the  water  is  always  disturbed.  The 
reflection  writhes  and  twists  in  the  water  like  a 
fiery  snake.  The  sails  of  ships,  houses,  trees, 
almost  any  object  near  or  upon  the  water,  will 
show  elongation  in  the  same  way.  Everyone 
who  has  been  in  Venice  knows  the  effect  of  the 
orange  sails  reflected  in  the  swaying  waters; 
and  the  long  wriggle  of  the  blue-and- white  gon- 


188 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


dola-posts  in  the  ever-agitated  Grand  Canal  is 
matter  of  common  observation. 

In  its  reflections,  shadows,  lights,  colors, 
forms,  there  is  nothing  in  nature  superior  to 
the  clear  mountain-lake.  It  has  no  sentiment, 
no  feeling  whatever,  though  we  often  speak  of 
it  as  though  it  had ;  but  there  is  no  limit  to  the 
emotion  it  can  arouse  in  the  breast  of  humanity. 
I  am  not  privileged  to  speak  of  this  at  any 
length,  for  I  have  set  myself  the  task  of  writing 
about  nature  as  it  is,  rather  than  about  the 
romance  it  can  create ;  yet,  no  one  can  be  in- 
sensible to  that  romance.  The  splendor  of  early 
morning  on  the  lake,  the  fresh  breeze,  the  waves 
dashed  back  by  the  bow  of  the  canoe,  the  glit- 
ter of  myriad  points  of  sunlight,  the  blue  sky, 
the  voyaging  clouds,  the  sentinel  mountains 
that  stand  like  giants  around  the  little  basin, 
are  all  productive  of  impulsive  feeling.  Nor  can 
anyone  be  quite  indifferent  to  the  silence  of  those 
mountains  at  night,  the  slow  rock  of  the  lake 
waters,  the  shimmer  of  the  stars,  and  the  moon- 
light weaving  a  pathway  of  splendor  from  shore 
to  shore.  Beautiful  in  themselves,  and  for 
themselves,  these  features  are  not  the  less  po- 
tent in  awakening  thoughts  of  beauty  in  the 
mind  of  man. 


STILL   WATERS 


189 


The  sentiment  is,  of  course,  wholly  of  human 
origin  ;  and  that  part  of  it  which  relates  to  the 
weal  or  woe  of  past  humanity  is  not  with  us 
here  in  America.  The  legend  and  the  story 
cling  about  European  lakes  and  make  them 
romantic  ;  ours  have  only  their  material  beauty 
combined  with  a  dash  of  untarnished  fresh- 
ness that  belongs  to  an  unworn  world.  But 
that  material  beauty  is  quite  sufficient  in  it- 
self. Without  pride  of  place  or  breath  of  pa- 
triotism, the  American  may  venture  to  think 
that  such  waters  as  Lake  George  are  not  out- 
ranked in  beauty  by  any  lake  waters  on  the  face 
of  the  globe.  To  be  sure,  the  Swiss  lakes  come 
in  and  claim  high  place  in  any  such  compar- 
ison. The  Lake  of  Lucerne  has  great  charm  as 
well  as  great  beauty  about  it,  though,  perhaps, 
it  is  a  little  dwarfed  and  obscured  by  its  high 
mountains  ;  and  surely  the  Italian  lakes  are  ex- 
ceptionally fair  and  lovely  to  look  upon.  The 
Irish  and  the  Scotch  lakes,  too,  are  famed  for 
their  beautiful  borders  and  graceful  forms, 
though  in  purity  of  lake  color  they  cannot  rival 
the  waters  of  Geneva  or  Como. 

But,  again,  I  come  back  to  query :  What  is  | 
so  fair  as  Lake  George  ?  It  has  all  the  marks 
of  natural  beauty  unblemished  by  cities  and 


Lake 
Otorge. 


190 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


artificial  growths.  A  sheet  of  clear  water  in  a 
framing  of  green  hills,  dotted  by  many  lovely 
islands  and  colored  by  as  bright  a  sky  as  ever 
arched  the  earth,  it  seems  to  epitomize  all  lake 
loveliness,  and  to  exemplify  the  luxuriant  splen- 
dor of  untrammelled  nature.  The  breath  of  the 
wilderness  is  still  there,  though  man  has  begun 
to  tenant  its  shores  in  places.  The  wind  that 
blows  over  it  is  pure,  and  those  timbered 
heights  above  it  are,  as  yet,  comparatively  un- 
trodden. Its  beauties  seem  as  bright  as  when 
the  earth  and  the  firmament  and  the  sea  were 
first  created ;  and  to-day,  as  for  many  centuries, 
a  light  seems  to  come  out  of  the  west  at  sun- 
set, tingeing  the  green-garmented  shoulders  of 
Black  Mountain  with  a  golden  hue  unknown 
to  the  Alps  and  the  Pyrenees — a  hue  belong- 
ing to  the  primitive  world,  put  on  by  nature 
for  its  own  splendor  and  its  own  pleasure. 

A  pond  or  a  pool  is  often  little  more  than  a 
diminutive  lake,  filling  a  depression  and  pro- 
duced by  an  embankment  after  the  fashion 
of  almost  all  still  waters.  It  differs  from  a 
mountain-lake  by  usually  having  low-lying 
shores  without  tall  timber  or  rocks,  a  sandy 
or  muddy  bottom,  and  perhaps,  flags,  rushes, 
and  rough  grasses  growing  along  its  shallow 


STILL   WATERS 


191 


margins.  Almost  every  town  has  a  local  body 
of  water  of  this  description  which  answers  to 
the  adjective  of  "  Silver,"  "  Blue,"  "  Fresh," 
or  "White."'  The  sarcasm  of  the  name 
is  unconscious  but  not  the  less  biting,  for 
the  pond  is  generally  a  stagnant,  malarious 
little  place,  with  the  frog,  the  bull-head,  and 
the  snake  for  occupants — its  waters  yellow  and 
its  shores  green  with  scum  and  parasitical 
vegetation.  Its  principal  charm  lies  in  what  it 
may  reflect  of  light  and  color  from  the  sky. 

Quite  different  from  this  is  the  pond  that  lies 
away  from  civilization,  hidden,  perhaps,  in  the 
depths  of  some  forest  where  tall  trees  come 
close  down  to  the  shore  and  peer  into  the 
water,  where  the  vines  and  underbrush  make 
an  almost  inaccessible  bank,  and  where  the 
brown  water,  lying  over  sunken  trees  and  beds 
of  leaves,  makes  a  dark  mirror  for  the  sky. 
The  silence,  the  solitude,  the  utter  isolation 
of  the  woodland  lake  seem  to  give  it  inter- 
est. So,  too,  with  the  prairie  pond,  lying 
out  on  the  treeless  plains  in  its  fringe  of  wild 
rice — the  spot  where  once  the  swan  and  the 
wild  goose  paused  in  their  migratory  nights, 
where  once  the  buffalo  came  to  wallow,  and  the 
Indian  and  his  pony  to  drink.  Birds  and 


192 


NATUKE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


beasts  and  Indians  have  about  departed,  but 
the  prairie  pond  in  its  wild  rice  circlet  still 
exists;  at  morning  and  evening  the  red 
of  the  sky,  the  pale  yellow  of  the  rice,  the 
green  of  the  flag  gleam  upon  its  waters  ;  and 
at  night  the  moon  and  the  stars  are  reflected 
from  its  shining  surface.  It  seems  about  the 
only  surviving  feature  of  a  nature  that  has 
rapidly  passed  away  before  the  axe  and  the 
plough.  It  belonged  to  the  Indians,  and  is 
associated  with  them.  I  can  see  them  now,  a 
band  of  fifty  or  more,  bonneted  and  painted 
for  war,  dashing  down  a  divide  and  plunging 
into  that  prairie  pond  to  let  their  hard-ridden 
ponies  drink.  They  pause  for  only  a  moment, 
the  ponies  pushing  their  noses  deep  under  the 
water,  and  then,  at  a  signal  yell  they  come 
rushing  out  of  the  pond,  through  the  rice, 
through  the  tall  prairie  grass,  and  vanish  like 
dusky  spectres  over  the  next  divide.  They 
come  and  go  no  more.  The  prairie  grass  has 
turned  into  a  wheat  field,  and  the  prairie  pond 
is  the  watering-place  for  herds  of  cattle. 

Almost  any  little  pond  or  basin  of  water 
adds  to  the  interest  of  the  landscape,  however 
humble  or  even  mean  it  may  be  intrinsically. 
It  is  always  a  bright  surface  and  can  reflect 


STILL   WATERS 


193 


beautiful  coloring  and  light  though  it  have 
neither  in  itself.  Even  artificial  waters,  though 
they  are  usually  dull  and  lifeless  in  body,  are 
better  than  none  at  all.  The  formal  beauty  of 
the  landscape-gardener  is  about  them,  but  taken 
in  connection  with  houses,  trees,  and  skies, 
they  may  have  a  certain  artistic  charm.  This 
charm  is  well  shown  in  the  pleasure-lakes  of 
various  European  estates,  and  particularly  in 
the  canals  of  Venice.  The  canals  were  origi- 
nally the  natural  tide-ways  between  islands, 
and  when  the  city  was  built  the  mud-banks 
formed  the  foundations  for  the  houses,  and 
the  canals  themselves  became  the  water-streets 
of  to-day.  Not  a  place  in  Europe  can  show 
such  beautiful  and  picturesque  compositions  as 
Venice.  The  color,  light,  and  reflection  of  the 
city  and  its  waters  are  world-famed.  The 
Ducal  Palace,  St.  Mark's,  the  towers  and  domes 
and  palaces  that  heave  out  of  the  blue-green 
tide,  change  their  color  fifty  times  a  day  with 
the  changing  of  the  sky;  the  swaying  waters 
of  the  canals  are  tremulous  with  direct  and  re- 
flected light ;  and  the  ships,  sails,  wharves,  and 
bridges  splash  the  horizon-line  with  countless 
patches  of  orange,  blue,  red,  and  yellow.  And 
these  are  only  the  pronounced  hues.  From 


194 


NATUBE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


every  broken  wall  and  water-worn  step,  from 
post  and  stunted  tree  and  marshy  shore,  are 
thrown  off  those  indescribable  tints  that  seem 
always  identified  with  decay.  Everything  about 
Venice  seems  to  reek  with  color.  It  is  the  hec- 
tic flush  of  the  dying.  But  how  very  beautiful 
it  is! 

The  canals  of  Holland  are  quite  as  artificial 
as  those  of  Venice,  but  they  are  different  in 
appearance.  They  have  a  more  even  surface, 
little  or  no  motion,  and  are  often  foul  in  their 
stagnation.  Nor  has  the  local  color  of  the  water 
the  life  about  it  of  the  Venetian  blue-green. 
It  is  dull,  dark,  often  brownish  in  hue,  and 
perhaps  for  that  reason  makes  an  excellent  re- 
flector, throwing  back  the  houses,  the  trees, 
the  great  white  clouds,  and  the  blue  sky  with 
superb  effect.  Again,  the  Holland  canal  land- 
scapes in  their  arrangement  are  not  so  varied 
as  those  of  Venice,  and  the  waters  of  the  back 
country  are  quite  different  from  those  in  Am- 
sterdam. The  country  canals,  with  their  low 
banks  and  their  rows  of  willows,  the  slow-mov- 
ing boats  with  lazy  sails,  the  ditched  meadow- 
lands,  the  groups  of  cattle,  the  long-armed 
windmills,  lend  to  a  quiet  pastoral  effect  and 
make  Holland  one  of  the  most  restful  places  in 


STILL   WATERS 


195 


the  world.  It  does  not  startle  or  oppress  one 
like  a  mountainous  country,  but  is  ever  quiet 
and  peaceful,  having  about  it  the  serenity  of  its 
smooth-faced  waters. 

But  these  waters  of  Holland  and  Venice,  with 
all  their  charm,  have  really  little  of  nature 
about  them  ;  or,  at  the  least,  what  there  is  of 
nature  is  so  alloyed  with  the  artificial  that  we 
think  of  them  only  in  connection  with  human- 
ity. After  seeing  them  we  instinctively  hark 
back  to  the  mountain-lake.  It  seems  to  lie  so 
much  nearer  to  nature's  heart.  Its  shores  and 
islands,  its  water  and  sky,  its  lapping  waves 
and  fresh-blowing  winds,  are  stimulating,  invig- 
orating, strong  with  the  strength  of  youth  and 
instinct  with  life.  Beautiful  in  repose,  the 
mountain-lake  is  not  without  beauty  when 
agitated.  Even  in  storm,  when  the  first  heavy 
drops  of  rain  spatter  the  smooth  surface  and  the 
sweep  of  the  wind  may  be  seen  in  the  ruffled 
water-line,  when  the  waves  are  dashing  and 
tossing  on  the  island  shores  and  the  roar  of  the 
tempest  can  be  heard  along  the  sides  of  the 
wooded  mountains,  even  then  the  mountain- 
lake  is  more  beautiful  than  almost  any  other 
body  of  water  in  repose.  After  many  summers 
spent  at  Venice,  I  hope  I  am  not  insensible 


196 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


to  its  splendid  sea-flooring,  and  all  the  crumb- 
ling glory  that  sags  above  it  and  is  reflected 
in  it,  bnt  as  an  example  of  nature's  beauties 
it  is  hardly  admissible.  The  mountain-lake  is 
nature — pure,  simple,  and  undefiled.  No  one 
can  fail  to  admire  it  and  love  it.  It  is  one  of 
nature's  brightest  jewels  set  in  her  green 
girdle  of  hills. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  EARTH  FRAME 

IT  was  the  teaching  of  our  childhood  that,  if 
we  divided  the  earth  into  land  and  water,  and 
allotted  one-quarter  to  the  former  and  three- 
quarters  to  the  latter,  we  should  have  the  pro- 
portionate distribution  of  these  elements.  Too 
many  of  us,  perhaps,  accepted  the  statement 
literally,  and  when  we  looked  upon  the  map, 
vaguely  wondered  if  the  water  floated  the  earth 
or  the  earth  the  water.  Even  in  maturer  years 
it  is  not  easy  to  realize  that  all  the  water  is  on 
the  surface,  that  the  earth's  hollows  and  de- 
pressions hold  it  as  in  cups,  and  that  after  all, 
it  is  the  earth  and  not  the  sea  that  is  the  domi- 
nant body.  The  volume  of  the  sea  is  enor- 
mous, to  be  sure,  and  that  of  the  air  is  still 
more  so  ;  yet  the  land  is  not  moved  by  them, 
but  is  the  mover.  It  is  the  central  body  around 
which  air  and  moisture  gather  —  the  solid  upon 
which  these  surface-coverings  rest. 

The  form  of  the  earth  is,  of  course,  globe- 
197 


Earth  and 


198 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


like,  and  if  we  could  see  it  from  a  distance 
denuded  of  atmosphere,  it  would  doubtless 
appear  as  a  ball  of  water  with  patches  of  land 
like  large  islands  projecting  above  the  surface. 
The  greater  part  of  the  surface  is  on  one  level — 
that  is  to  say,  sea-level,  which  we  accept  as  the 
standard.  Above  it  there  are  elevations  of 
land  in  points  and  ridges  called  mountains 
projecting  upward  some  thirty  thousand  feet ; 
and  below  it  there  are  depressions  or  holes  in 
the  sea  extending  down  some  thirty  thousand 
feet.  There  are  numerous  exceptions  to  the 
rule  of  the  sea-level  marking  land  above  and 
water  below.  Some  of  the  plains  and  basins 
are  below  or  above  the  sea-line.  The  margin 
of  the  Dead  Sea  lies  thirteen  hundred  feet 
lower  than  that  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  the 
great  lake  of  Titicaca  in  the  Andes,  with  an 
area  of  three  thousand  square  miles,  is  nearly 
thirteen  thousand  feet  above  the  Pacific.  From 
Titicaca  downward  there  are  hundreds  of 
bodies  of  fresh  water  conserved  in  great  basins 
of  the  earth,  which  are  as  upland  reservoirs  to 
the  sea  itself. 

It  is  fortunate,  indeed,  that  the  earth  has 
these  upland  reservoirs,  fortunate  that  they 
are  so  equally  distributed  over  the  face  of  the 


TUB  EARTH   FRAME 


199 


earth.  If  it  were  not  for  them  there  would  be 
more  Saharas  of  desolation,  and  the  green  of 
the  earth  in  many  a  tract  now  lovely  in  light 
and  color,  would  take  wings  and  vanish  into 
space.  It  is  color  that  gives  the  glow  of  life  to 
the  earth,  and  yet  this  great  beauty  might  dis- 
appear without  weakening  in  any  way  the  frame 
or  form  of  the  globe.  The  earth  could  and 
would  exist,  and  swing  on  in  its  orbit,  were 
there  no  life,  no  light,  no  color  upon  it.  The 
modelling  of  the  mountains,  the  deep-incised 
river  valleys,  the  flat  spaces  of  the  plains,  the 
hollow  depths  of  the  ocean-beds,  would  remain 
substantially  as  to-day.  For  the  material  of 
which  the  earth  is  formed  is  so  cohesive  that 
its  shape  would  probably  hold  for  centuries 
after  its  seas  had  evaporated  and  its  atmos- 
phere had  passed  away.  The  interior  of  the 
globe  may  be  fire  or  rolling  vapors,  or  simply 
solid  matter ;  man  speculates  about  it  without 
absolute  knowledge.  But  about  the  crust  he  is 
quite  certain  that  it  is  rock  formation,  made 
in  different  ways  and  at  different  geological 
periods  of  the  earth's  history. 

Doubtless,  the  whole  globe  was  at  one  time 
covered  with  sea,  and  when  the  waters  receded 
from  the  table-lands  there  was  a  hardening  of 


The  earth' t 
skeleton. 


Itsttrength. 


200 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


the  sedimental  deposits ;  doubtless,  there  were 
at  other  times  great  streams  of  hot  lava  forced 
up  from  below  by  volcanoes  and  spread  over 
vast  surfaces,  cementing  the  sedimental  de- 
posits into  rock  strata ;  and  doubtless,  again, 
chemical  action  and  change  by  and  through 
air,  water,  fire,  produced  other  rock  masses 
with  which  geology  acquaints  us.  The  forms  of 
rocks,  their  twisted,  broken,  or  waving  strata, 
were  caused  by  convulsions  of  the  earth  (either 
expansions  or  contractions  of  the  crust)  which, 
following  the  form  of  a  wrinkle  or  a  fold,  have 
heaved  the  surface  in  some  places  and  depressed 
it  in  other  places.  The  deposits  which  we  call 
soil,  together  with  the  bowlders  and  loose 
stones,  are  but  the  grit  from  rock  formations, 
broken  away  by  frost,  wind,  and  rain,  and 
washed  down  into  the  valleys  by  the  brooks  and 
streams. 

The  human  being  has  always  had  a  very  keen 
appreciation  of  the  earth's  volume  and  sub- 
stance. Earthquakes  may  shake  his  house,  but 
not  his  faith.  The  tremor  is  but  temporary  ;  he 
still  believes  in  the  solidity  of  the  earth  under  his 
feet.  And  yet  how  seldom  he  thinks  of  the  im- 
mensity of  the  structure,  its  continuity,  its  long 
endurance,  factors  which  have  made  possible  its 


THE  EARTH   FRAME 


201 


cohesiveness  and  its  solidity.  But  a  few  years 
ago  one  could  ride  over  the  prairies  of  North- 
west America — could  ride  for  weeks  up  and  over 
the  rolling  divides,  through  the  tall  grass  where 
the  horse's  hoofs  made  scarcely  a  sound,  where 
there  was  no  tree  nor  lake  nor  river  nor  any 
trace  of  human  habitation.  There  seemed  no 
end  to  the  vast  stretch  of  grass  and  sky.  How 
very  impressive  it  all  seemed  !  How  calm  and 
serene  the  great  motionless  swells  of  the  prai- 
rie !  Rolled  in  their  wave-forms,  they  had  not 
moved  nor  changed.  They  were  probably  cast 
in  those  forms  ages  before  the  Indian  and  the 
buffalo  came.  The  tall  grass  wove  a  protecting 
mesh  over  them  so  that  wind  and  rain  should 
not  shift  them.  They  lay  silent  and  immovable 
for  so  many  centuries.  But  the  plough  is  now 
ribbing  their  hollows  and  breaking  their  backs. 
They  will  wash  into  lakes  and  rivers  and  flatten 
down  into  plains,  now  that  the  white  man  and 
his  civilization  have  come. 

But  a  few  years  ago  one  could  hunt  the  deer, 
the  bear,  and  the  moose  in  the  great  forests  of 
Minnesota  and  Wisconsin — could  hunt  and  walk 
for  days  and  weeks  without  coming  to  the  end 
of  those  "  Big  Woods/'  as  they  used  to  be  called. 
The  great  pines,  oaks,  sycamores,  and  elms, 


Perma- 
nence of  the. 
prairie*. 


In  theforett 
primeval. 


202 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN  SAKE 


through  whose  tops  had  whistled  the  winds  of 
so  many  winters,  how  sturdy  they  stood ! 
The  fallen  giants  of  the  wood  lying  prone 
upon  their  faces,  blown  down  years  and  years 
ago,  looked  sound  and  substantial  under  their 
moss  coverings ;  but  the  pressure  of  the  foot 
would  show  that  they  were  dust — a  semblance 
merely  of  form.  The  scattered  leaves  and 
pine-needles  seemed  a  very  thin  earth-cover- 
ing, but  one  could  dig  deep  and  still  turn  up 
the  crumbled  mould  of  trees.  That  forest  must 
have  been  before  ever  the  hosts  of  Ur  or  Assur 
were  brought  forth.  Here  it  stood,  its  trees 
holding  in  solid  ranks,  the  older  dying  off,  the 
younger  springing  up  to  take  the  vacant  places ; 
yet  apparently  the  forest  never  shifting,  never 
changing.  Scarred  it  was  in  places  by  fire  and 
windfall,  but  these  were  mere  spots  that  in  no 
way  impaired  its  calmness,  serenity,  and  appall- 
ing majesty.  It  is  all  but  gone  now,  yet  the 
destruction  was  not  nature's  own.  The  axe 
has  laid  it  low,  the  rivers  have  carried  down  the 
logs,  and  man  has  sawn  them  into  lumber 
and  shipped  them  around  the  world.  The 
forerunner  of  civilization  is  destruction,  and 
its  follower  is  always  desolation. 
But  Sahara  is  still  the  same  Sahara  that 


THE   EAETH   FRAME 


Menes  knew  ;  it  at  least  has  remained  quite  un- 
disturbed. The  traveller  may  strike  off  from 
the  Nile  and  ride — ride  west  for  days  without  a 
change.  There  is  with  him  always  the  glaring 
sunlight,  the  sand  and  rock,  the  torn  and  ragged 
wady,  the  star-like  glance  of  light  from  quartz 
and  mica,  and  overhead  the  rose-hued  sky. 
Nothing  hut  barren  waste  below  and  burning 
heat  above.  The  two  expanses  circle  and  en- 
close him  as  he  stands  upon  his  central  point  of 
sun-fire.  One  may  ride  on  for  hundreds  of 
miles  and  still  there  is  no  change.  The  opal  flash 
of  sands,  the  glaring  rocks,  and  the  trembling, 
heated  atmosphere — that  is  all.  How  silent 
and  motionless  the  vast  desert !  Simoons  may 
blow  and  drift  the  sands  hither  and  thither,  but 
the  general  appearance  does  not  alter.  It  never 
alters.  The  desert  steeds  of  the  Pharaohs  per- 
ished in  these  wastes  ages  ago,  as  yesterday  the 
caravan  of  the  Mecca  pilgrims.  The  Sphinx 
with  its  face  to  the  sun  and  its  back  to  the 
desert,  has  felt  the  far-travelling  waves  of  sand 
lapping  its  shoulders  through  no  one  knows  how 
many  centuries  of  desolation,  but  the  sands 
were  there  before  ever  it  was  carved.  Will 
they  always  remain  as  now  ?  Who  knows 
what  changes  the  engines  of  civilization  may 


The  changt 

less  desert. 


The  sands 
of  Sahara. 


204 


NATURE  FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


work  ?     The  northern  Libyan  desert  may  yet 
form  the  bed  of  a  great  inland  sea. 

And  is  there  nothing  more  permanent  about 
the  earth  than  prairie  grass,  and  forest  trees, 
and  shifting  desert  sands — nothing  more  sub- 
stantial than  these  ?  If  one  stands  on  the 
height  of  Miirren  and  looks  across  to  the  base 
of  the  Jungf rau,  he  may  think  differently.  What 
a  stupendous  pedestal  for  that  white-capped 
young  goddess  of  the  Oberland  !  The  wall  of 
rock  is  simply  tremendous  in  volume.  It 
stretches  wide,  it  reaches  high.  It  is  the  vault- 
ing of  the  globe — a  glimpse  of  the  understruct- 
ure  of  the  crust — exposed  to  view  by  the  acci- 
dent of  a  valley.  It  is  this  massive  vaulting  that 
apparently  holds  the  globe  together  as  the  shell 
does  the  egg.  It  stretches  around  the  whole 
earth ;  and  the  forests,  the  sands,  the  mountains, 
the  seas,  are  related  to  it  only  as  the  mosses,  the 
wind-blown  dust,  and  the  rain-pools  to  the  Col- 
iseum's walls  upon  which  they  lie.  The  struct- 
ure is  almost  stifling  to  the  imagination,  so 
great  is  the  plan,  so  small  is  the  mind  of  man 
to  grasp  it.  If  we  look  away  from  the  wall  of 
rock  up  into  the  far  valleys,  where  the  blue  air 
lies  packed  in  between  the  uplifted  peaks,  and 
listen  a  moment,  we  shall  realize  a  silence  so  in- 


THE   EARTH   FRAME 


206 


tense  that  it  can  be  heard.  The  very  air  is 
freighted  with  the  hush  of  a  majestic  presence. 
It  comes  to  us  with  an  indescribable  vibration 
which  has  about  it  the  hum  of  distance  and  im- 
mensity. The  sea-shell  which  the  child  holds  to 
its  ear  suggests  the  same  wondering  tale.  It  is 
something  that  tells  of  power  and  eternity. 

How  many  centuries  that  masonry  has  stood  ! 
How  many  centuries,  through  heat  and  cold  and 
earthquake  shocks,  it  will  continue  to  stand  ! 

"When  you  and  I  behind  the  veil  have  passed, 
Oh  but  the  long,  long  years  the  world  will  last." 

Surely,  it  has  a  strong  foundation.  Not  here 
in  the  Alps  alone,  but  in  the  Caucasus,  the 
Andes,  the  Rockies,  its  supporting  courses  of 
rock  keep  peeping  out.  It  was  only  geological 
yesterday  that  these  breaks  in  the  crust  became 
apparent ;  and,  perhaps,  under  the  rounded,  tim- 
ber-grown slopes  of  the  Appalachians,  or  the  old, 
old,  grass-grown  plains  there  rest  still  mightier 
strata  of  rock.  Again,  the  scratches  made  in 
the  great  shell  by  eroding  rivers  like  the  Colo- 
rado, the  Mississippi,  the  Hudson,  the  Rhine, 
the  Danube,  are  but  recent  gnawings  of  water 
upon  rocks.  Under  the  table -lands  and  the 
foot-hills  may  rest  an  untouched  rock-structure 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


of  sterner  stuff.  How  like  steel  or  flint  that 
base  supporting  the  Jungfrau  !  Those  who 
cut  the  tunnels  through  Mt.  Cenis  and  St. 
Gothard  found  out  how  compactly  that  wall 
of  the  Alps  was  put  together,  and  of  what 
rock  quality  it  was  built.  It  would  seem  as 
though  those  strata  were  laid,  one  upon  an- 
other, with  the  aim  and  the  design  of  their  en- 
during forever. 

And  how  could  the  frame  itself  have  been 
planned  better  ?  Arched  at  every  point  by  the 
great  rock-beds  of  plain  or  mountain,  it  is 
more  cohesive  than  any  dome  of  human  ma- 
sonry, be  it  of  the  Pantheon,  or  of  Hagia 
Sophia,  or  of  the  Taj  Mehal.  The  architect- 
ural drum  is  but  a  half-globe  placed  like  an 
inverted  cup  upon  supporting  walls  and  mem- 
bers, but  the  earth  is  as  complete  in  its  rotun- 
dity as  in  its  continuity.  Braced  by  its  own 
curve,  the  atmospheric  pressure  from  without 
has  as  little  power  to  crush  it  in  as  the  possi- 
ble gases  and  vapors  from  within  to  bulge  it 
out.  Doubtless,  ages  ago,  when  the  earth  was 
soft  and  pliable,  its  whirling  motion  through 
space  made  it  round,  much  as  the  rain-drop 
rounds  itself  by  passing  through  the  air  ;  and 
now  that  it  has  hardened,  it  is  not  likely  to  lose 


THE  EARTH   FRAME 


its  shape.  All  worlds  are  round.  Nature  is 
intent  upon  building  for  eternity,  and  it  chooses 
the  strongest  building  principle  of  all — the  self- 
supporting  globe. 

We  cannot  see  upon  the  globe  itself  the  great, 
sweeping  lines  that  make  the  earth  circle,  but, 
as  intimated  some  chapters  back,  we  may  gain 
some  suggestion  of  them  from  certain  sky 
curves.  The  upward  and  inward  arch  of  the 
blue  sky,  the  visible  envelope  of  the  earth,  but 
repeats  the  curve  of  the  earth  itself.  Nothing 
gives  the  feeling  of  the  globe's  rotundity  so  ef- 
fectively as  this  ;  and  yet  I  have  been  told  by 
many  observant  people  that  they  could  not  see 
this  curve  of  the  heavens,  that  the  blue  looked 
to  them  perfectly  flat,  and  that  the  monotone 
of  the  color,  the  brilliancy  of  the  light,  de- 
stroyed all  sense  of  form.  Perhaps  the  curve 
would  be  apparent  to  them  if  they  saw  it  cast 
upon  the  sky  by  the  earth's  shadow  instead  of 
suggested  in  the  illuminated  blue.  This  can 
be  seen  almost  any  summer  evening,  when  the 
sky  is  free  of  clouds  and  the  sun  has  just  fallen 
below  the  horizon.  Facing  to  the  north  and 
looking  at  the  zenith,  we  are  aware  of  the  light 
slowly  fading  out  of  the  west.  Everyone  sees 
and  knows  that  fading  light,  but  few  ^f  us  ever 


Earth  linet. 


208 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


The  earth'* 
shadow  on 
the  tky. 


The  arch 
of  the  sky. 


notice  the  coming  shadow  which  follows  after. 
I  do  not  mean  the  darkening  of  the  hills  and 
valleys  and  waters  about  us,  but  the  shadow 
on  the  sky — the  great  earth  shadow  stealing  up 
toward  the  zenith  from  the  east.  As  the  light 
passes  down  the  vast  incline  and  below  the 
western  horizon,  this  shadow  coming  up  from  the 
eastern  horizon,  moves  slowly  into  its  place.  It 
is  not  readily  seen  at  first,  but  after  a  few  obser- 
vations the  eye  becomes  more  quick  to  note  its 
presence  than  the  mind  to  conceive  of  its  vast- 
ness.  It  is  in  this  shadow,  drawing  up  and 
over  the  sky  like  a  thin  veil,  that  one  can 
often  see  the  suggested  curve  of  the  earth. 
It  is  at  times  very  obvious,  but  it  never  seems 
so  clear  and  pure  as  the  curve  of  the  blue 
sky  in  the  morning,  because  it  is  frequently 
confused  with  lower  shadows.  Nothing,  indeed, 
can  excel  the  marvellous  sweep  up  and  over  of 
the  illuminated  blue.  The  dawn-light  mount- 
ing the  sky  does  not  go  beyond  it,  and  the  no- 
blest spring  of  bridge  or  dome  designed  by  man 
looks  strained  beside  it.  It  is  drawn  so  perfect, 
and  it  rests  so  serene  in  its  perfection,  that  even 
the  arch  of  the  rainbow  seems  almost  like  a 
child's  toy  in  comparison  with  it. 

It  has  already  been  suggested  that  a  glimpse 


THE   EARTH   FRAME 


209 


of  another  earth  line  is  afforded  us  by  the  hori- 
zon. This  horizon  curve  can  be  seen  to  the 
best  advantage  from  the  cross-trees  of  a  ship  in  l  Horu 
mid-ocean.  There  the  circle  that  sweeps  about  linet' 
one  is  quite  complete  ;  and  the  line  one  sees  is 
the  edge  where  the  world  slips  down  beyond 
our  vision.  Again,  how  perfectly  that  curve  is 
drawn  ;  and  on  a  clear  day  how  embracing  is 
its  sweep !  A  similar,  but  perhaps  not  such  a 
perfect,  effect  can  be  seen  on  the  alkaline  plains 
looking  out  from  some  tall  butte  across  the 
lowly  buffalo  grass,  with  the  wavering  heat  of 
the  plains  rising  upward  instead  of  the  ocean 
moisture.  It  is  a  smaller  circle,  a  smaller  earth 
line,  that  is  thus  revealed  to  us ;  but  what  a 
hint  it  gives  us  of  the  greater  lines  which  must 
be  merely  its  enlargement ! 

The  demarkations  of  light  and  dark  against 
the  sky  are  about  the  only  glimpses  of  the  earth- 
curves  that  are  vouchsafed  to  us  ;  but  the  prin- 
ciple of  rotundity — the  curved  line  so  often 
called  ' '  the  line  of  beauty  " — is  shown  to  us  in 
almost  all  the  earth  formations.  The  zoophite, 
that  builds  a  rounded  cell  in  the  rounded  coral, 
making  by  aggregation  the  round  island  in  the 
Southern  seas,  is  typical  of  all  creation.  The 
law  of  the  circle  that  curves  the  waves  of  light 


210 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


and  color  on  the  interior  of  the  sea-shell  also 
curves  the  prairie,  arches  the  hill,  rounds  the 
lake,  and  bends  the  river.  The  line  forever 
sweeps  in  and  around.  Even  when  there  are 
apparent  exceptions  in  nature's  products,  as  in 
the  forms  of  crystals  (and  there  are  round  crys- 
tals, too),  or  the  sharp  needles  of  a  mountain- 
peak,  there  is  an  attempt  to  amend  the  fault, 
as  it  were.  The  winds,  the  rains,  the  frost, 
the  heat,  immediately  set  about  rounding  and 
curving  the  knife-like  edges;  and  the  peak, 
which  at  a  distance  looks  sharp  and  angu- 
lar, proves  to  be  round  and  smooth  when 
seen  close  to  view.  The  hill,  that  to-day  is 
dome-crowned  like  a  Byzantine  lantern,  was 
once  snapped  and  splintered  upward  by  the 
sharp  fold  of  the  rock  strata;  and  many  a 
coast-lying  island,  that  now  is  carpeted  with 
soft  rolls  of  green  sward,  was  originally  banked 
up  in  a  ragged  heap  and  pushed  ahead  of  a 
glacier  in  the  great  Ice  Age. 

The  circle  is  indeed  nature's  great  working 
principle.  Organic  and  inorganic  matter — 
winds,  storms,  clouds,  tides — all  display  it. 
The  life  that  springs  up  from  the  earth  withers 
and  returns  to  the  earth  again,  rising  and  fall- 
ing in  the  lines  of  a  jetting  fountain  ;  and  the 


THE   EARTH   FRAME 


211 


evaporation  from  the  sea,  that  carries  inland  and 
descends  as  rain,  filling  the  lakes  and  the  rivers 
and  finding  its  way  back  to  the  sea,  again 
exemplifies  the  circle.  All  the  elements — 
fire,  water,  air  —  show  it.  Yes,  even  the 
planetary  system  pays  allegiance  to  it ;  and  as 
the  moon  circles  the  earth,  so  the  earth  circles 
the  sun,  and  the  sun  itself  with  all  its  planets, 
is  following  a  mightier  curve  about 


greater  orb,  or  is,  perhaps,  drawn  inward  by 
the  sweet  influences  of  the  Pleiades. 

And  is  the  physical  or  intellectual  life  of 
man  any  exception  to  the  rule  ?  Tribes  travel 
from  east  to  west  for  ten  thousand  years,  fol- 
lowing the  track  of  the  sun,  until  at  last  they 
rediscover  the  cradle  of  the  race — reach  the 
spot  from  which  migration  first  started  ;  minds 
build  up  thought  for  ages,  advancing,  as 
they  suppose,  until  at  last  they  find  they  are 
but  rediscovering  the  truths  known  to  the 
ancients.  They  have  completed  the  circle, 
and  the  circumference  is  limited.  Out  of 
it  and  beyond  it  man  cannot  go.  Once,  in 
an  Eastern  church,  my  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  beetle  in  the  dome  wheeling  and  beating 
against  the  encircling  stones,  vainly  trying  to 
get  out.  Around  and  around  that  dome,  hour 


212 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


after  hour,  he  droned  his  way;  but  the  en- 
compassing arch  offered  no  exit.  Ah  !  how 
the  bine  arch  of  heaven  closes  in  upon  the 
winged  flights  of  the  Buddhas,  the  Mahomets, 
and  the  Platos  !  They  may  drone  on  in  circles 
beneath  it  for  ages,  but  the  human  mind  will 
never  break  through  and  beyond  it.  Man  is 
not  different  from  the  other  creations  of  nature. 
His  lines  are  cast  in  curves,  and  he  glides  along 
them  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  uncon- 
sciously obeying  the  universal  law.  He  thinks 
his  movement  progress,  but  is  it  anything  more 
than  change  ?  His  is  a  different  segment  from 
the  one  his  father  traced,  but  is  it  not  a  part  of 
the  same  circle  ?  Nature  never  designed  that 
the  human  should  be  exempt  from  the  uni- 
versal law.  The  circle  binds  him  as  the  world 
spins.  His  deeds  and  his  thoughts  stretch 
upward,  as  flowers  spring  aspiringly  toward 
the  sun,  but  ever  and  always  they  are  curved 
in  and  turned  back  upon  themselves,  sinking 
into  the  earth  mould  from  whence  they  rose. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MOUNTAINS   AND   HILLS 

THE  mountains  have  more  than  once  been 
characterized  as  the  "backbone"  of  the  globe 
or  of  the  continent,  but  one  cannot  think  the 
simile  other  than  misleading.  The  globe  has 
no  more  backbone  than  the  sun-baked  bowl  of 
a  Zufii  Indian.  It  has  not  even  a  rib  or  a 
vertebra;  and  the  mountain-ridge  is  no  more 
its  binding  member  than  the  upheaved  track 
of  a  mole  across  a  garden  is  the  band  that 
holds  the  garden  together.  The  mountain- 
ridge,  however,  is  not  produced  in  the  same  way 
as  the  mole-ridge.  The  great  layers  of  rock, 
piled  up  on  end  like  the  poles  of  an  Indian's 
tepee,  that  make  the  Alpine  peaks,  are  more  the 
result  of  lateral  pressure  than  direct  upheaval. 
They  were  pushed  up  as  a  wrinkle  in  the  crust 
of  the  earth,  and  the  beds  of  loose  soil  that 
lay  above  the  rock  were  rolled  back  into  the 
valley,  leaving  the  ragged  edges  of  the  crust 
exposed  to  view.  In  other  words,  a  mountain- 
213 


Jfauntair 
ridge*. 


214 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


How 

mountains 
are  formed. 


The  Alps. 


ridge  is  a  bulge  or  break  in  the  dome  of  ma- 
sonry, and  not  a  string-course  where  an  extra 
layer  of  rock  is  placed  for  ornament  or  strength. 
It  seems  to  be  the  present  scientific  conclu- 
sion that  mountains  are  not  formed  so  much  by 
volcanic  action  as  by  the  folds  or  laps  in  the 
crust  made  by  the  contraction  of  the  earth  as  it 
grows  older  and  colder.  The  illustration  used 
is  that  of  the  skin  or  surface  of  an  apple.  It 
wrinkles  in  folds  as  the  apple  withers  and  de- 
creases in  size ;  and  these  folds  in  the  skin  of 
the  apple  correspond  to  the  mountains  and  val- 
leys of  our  earth.  The  illustration  and  the 
conclusion  are  both  very  plausible.  The  long 
line  of  the  Rockies  once  lay,  perhaps,  thousands 
of  feet  beneath  the  flat  bed  of  an  inland  sea,  but 
some  contraction  of  the  earth,  some  great  sink- 
ing-in  of  the  crust  on  either  side,  caused  a  cor- 
responding fold  to  rise,  and  the  result  was  the 
long  range  of  mountains  from  Alaska  to  Pata- 
gonia. The  high  point  of  the  fold  came  just 
on  the  central  line  of  the  ridge,  and  from  that 
outward,  on  either  side,  this  fold  was  less 
marked,  producing  near  at  hand  the  smaller 
spurs,  then  the  slightly  heaved  foot-hills, 
finally  merging  into  the  undisturbed  plains. 
The  Alps  were  doubtless  formed  in  a  similar 


MOUNTAINS    AND   HILLS 


215 


manner,  except  that  the  bulge  or  uplift  was 
more  abrupt  from  being  localized  within  a  com- 
paratively small  area. 

It  is  popularly  supposed  that  the  Alps,  the 
Himalayas,  the  Rockies,  are  the  oldest  and  the 
most  permanent  of  the  earth's  formations  ;  and 
the  "steadfast  mountains/'  the  "everlasting 
hills/'  the  "  eternal  Alps,"  are  the  common  fig- 
ures of  speech  used  about  them.  But  the 
lofty  mountain  would  seem  the  youngest  of  the 
earth's  formations,  and  so  far  from  being  "  eter- 
nal "or  "  everlasting,"  it  is  wearing  away  much 
faster  than  the  lower  heights.  For  the  mountain 
is  an  exposed  point  of  land — a  high  point — and 
is  always  suffering  from  the  wear  of  the  ele- 
ments. Of  these  elements,  water  is  the  most  de- 
structive of  all.  The  snow-cap  of  the  peak  is  a 
condenser  and  a  cloud-maker  for  the  vapors  of 
the  plains.  It  rains  or  snows  on  the  upper  ridges 
night  after  night  when  never  a  drop  or  flake  falls 
in  the  valley.  The  water  collects  in  swift-run- 
ning streams,  the  more  destructive  for  their  ve- 
locity, that  cut  and  rib  the  mountain-side.  The 
soft  portions  of  earth  and  rock  are  eaten  out  first, 
and  the  hard  parts  crumble  from  lack  of  sup- 
port. Then  the  sun-heat  expands,  the  cold  con- 
tracts and  splits,  the  winds  and  rains  erode,  the 


216 


NATUBE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


glacier  grinds,  and  the  avalanche  tears.  All 
told,  the  wearing-down  process  is  very  effective. 
Perhaps,  long  before  the  Alps  were  bent  upward, 
the  Appalachians  were  towering  in  the  air,  the 
loftiest  mountains  on  the  globe  ;  but  countless 
ages  have  given  the  elements  the  chance  to  wear 
them  away,  until  to-day  the  ridge  lines  are  al- 
most horizontal,  and  the  once  spectral  peaks, 
that  may  have  projected  like  dragons'  teeth,  are 
no  more.  The  torn  and  splintered  look  of  the 
Alps  and  the  Andes  but  prove  their  youth. 
The  time  will  come  when  they  will  be  worn 
away  to  low  hills,  and  finally  reduced  to  the 
common  level.  The  flat  plains,  which  we  never 
think  of  as  rock -based,  are  perhaps,  in  their 
foundations,  the  spots  of  earth  that  have  re- 
mained undisturbed  the  longest  of  all. 

Many  of  the  hill-ranges  that  lie  about  us 
to-day  are  merely  very  ancient  mountains  de- 
nuded of  their  mountain  features  by  the  con- 
stant wear  of  the  elements.  But  all  of  them  are 
not  of  this  character.  Some  of  the  hills  were 
originally  formed  not  by  a  fold  but  by  a 
crack  or  split  in  the  crust  which  has  allowed 
one  side  to  sink  down  and  left  the  other  side 
exposed  to  view,  in  abrupt  cleavage,  as  it  were. 
Such  hills  are  not  usually  very  high,  and  their 


MOUNTAINS  AND  HILLS 


217 


tops  are  flat,  without  peaks.  Many  of  the  round 
mounds  that  are  to  be  seen  on  the  plains  and 
watersheds  of  the  world  were  probably  formed 
in  still  another  way.  They  are  composed  of 
debris  of  clay  and  gravel,  and  were  perhaps 
pushed  to  their  places  by  some  glacier  of  the 
Ice  Age.  They  were  not  caused  by  breaks  in 
the  crust,  and  have  no  splintered  rock  strata 
about  them.  Then,  again,  there  are  so-called 
hills  that  are  not  hills  at  all,  but  exposed  por- 
tions of  the  earth's  crust  caused  by  the  erosion 
of  rivers.  The  bluffs  that  fringe  the  banks  of 
the  Upper  Mississippi  are  not  mountain-heights; 
they  indicate  merely  the  level  of  the  prairie. 
The  river  passing  over  a  sand-stone  crust  has 
cut  through  it  and  sunk  its  bed  five  hundred 
feet  or  more  below  the  prairie  surface.  Many  a 
hill  or  mountain  in  the  valley  of  the  Hudson  or 
the  Connecticut  has  been  formed  by  the  water 
passing  around  it  and  wearing  through  the 
softer  portion  of  the  rock,  leaving  the  harder 
portion  standing.  It  is  even  said  that  parts  of 
the  Catskills,  and  many  of  the  mountains  in 
Colorado,  were  formed,  not  by  folds  in  the  crust, 
but  by  erosion — the  cutting  out  of  the  valleys 
about  them  by  water. 

It  is  seldom  that  a  mountain-ridge  or  chain 


218 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


rises  abruptly  from  the  surrounding  country. 
The  fold  has  usually  left  its  mark  for  hundreds 
of  miles  on  either  side  of  the  chain,  and  the 
ascent  to  the  topmost  peaks  is  made  by  a 
gradual  rise  from  the  plains  to  the  table-lands, 
and  from  these  to  the  foot-hills,  so  that  fre- 
quently the  mountain-climber  finds  himself 
thousands  of  feet  above  sea-level  before  the 
outlines  of  the  ridge  appear  at  all.  This  is  not, 
of  course,  true  of  the  Alps,  where  the  deep 
valleys  enable  one  to  come  to  the  base  of  Mt. 
Blanc,  for  instance,  and  see  the  mountain  itself 
towering  twelve  thousand  feet  higher  up  ;  but 
it  is  quite  true  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  espe- 
cially in  the  Montana  region.  The  ascent  is 
gradual  from  the  prairie  "  divides/'  which  one 
thinks  of  (erroneously,  no  doubt)  as  the  little 
wrinkles  of  the  earth's  surface,  through  table- 
lands and  foot-hills  covered  with  vegetation  and 
cut  by  beautiful  valleys.  The  hills  near  at 
hand  are  bright  green,  but  they  grow  bluer  and 
the  valley  shadows  paler  as  they  recede  from  us, 
and  oftentimes  in  clear  weather  one  can  see  far 
away,  beyond  the  timber-crowned  slopes  of  the 
foot-hills,  the  faint  gray  silhouette  of  the  high 
mountain-ridge,  almost  lost  in  the  blue  of  the  sky. 
The  fold  of  the  earth  crust  is  usually  a  long  one. 


MOUNTAINS  AND  HILLS 


219 


In  considering  mountains  for  their  pictu- 
resque appearances,  the  ascent  of  them  claims 
some  attention,  for,  oddly  enough,  mankind  in 
general  will  have  it  that  the  only  way  to  see  a 
mountain  or  a  valley  is  from  the  mountain's 
top.  One  marvels  at  the  universal  predilection 
for  the  "  view,"  and  at  times  the  wonder  grows 
if  the  energy  spent  in  scrambling  up  to  high 
places  is  not  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  It  is  all 
of  a  piece  with  hanging  over  Niagara  and  being 
agitated  by  the  "  bigness"  of  things,  or  looking 
through  the  reverse  end  of  the  opera-glass  and 
wondering  over  the  smallness  of  things.  The 
man  in  Paris  who  climbs  the  stairs  of  that 
wearisome  Column  of  July,  to  see  the  city  lying 
below  him  like  a  checker-board,  is  cousin-ger- 
man  to  the  man  who  climbs  Mt.  Blanc  to  see  the 
"  view,"  and,  incidentally,  the  smallness  of  his 
Chamonix  hotel  lying  below  him  in  the  valley. 
Like  other  people,  I  have  done  my  share  of 
mountain-climbing,  but  I  never  felt  repaid  for 
the  exertion,  and  I  may  add  that  I  never  had 
much  sympathy  with  the  "view"  as  seen  from 
mountain-tops.  It  is  usually  said  to  be  "grand," 
but  to  me  it  has  been  so  only  in  a  scenic,  pan- 
oramic way.  Even  from  such  comparatively 
low  places  as  the  Catskill  Mountains,  or  the 


220 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


Mississippi  bluffs,  or  the  Leopoldsberg  near 
Vienna,  the  great  expanse  of  territory  to  be 
seen  in  the  vista  looks  "  mappy,"  and  I  cannot 
imagine  anything  more  dreary  than  to  live  upon 
such  heights,  straining  one's  eyes  and  imagina- 
tion over  the  lines  of  a  river-valley,  with  its 
dotted  farms,  towns,  lakes,  and  woodlands. 

Doubtless,  I  am  lacking  in  appreciation  just 
here,  and  yet  I  must  add  further  that  the 
"view"  from  the  high  Alps  is  even  more  de- 
pressing and  unsatisfactory  to  me.  The  helter- 
skelter  confusion  of  snow-fields,  great  glaciers, 
gray  needles  of  rock,  and  flashing  blinding  light 
may  be  sublime  in  the  sense  that  chaos  is 
sometimes  sublime,  but  it  is  hardly  beautiful. 
If  one  looks  about  him  the  masses  are  too  big 
for  comprehension,  the  eyes  grow  weary  looking 
at  them,  and  finally  the  imagination — the 
power  to  conceive  the  scene— breaks  down.  If 
one  looks  over  into  the  valley  it  is  the  world 
seen  through  the  small  end  of  the  opera-glass 
again — the  scale  is  too  petty,  too  map-like.  In 
fact,  the  "  view  "  from  the  mountain  is  some- 
thing more  than  the  unusual  produced  by  dis- 
tance ;  it  is  in  measure  a  positive  distortion  so 
far  as  our  eyes  are  concerned — something  quite 
out  of  the  normal. 


MOUNTAINS   AND   HILLS 


221 


By  that  I  mean  that  our  usnal  way  of  seeing 
things  is  violently  reversed.  When  we  stand  in  The  look 
the  valleys  or  lowlands  we  instinctively  look  * 
straight  ahead  or  up,  and  in  doing  so  all  opaque 
bodies  are  seen  by  their  reliefs  of  shadows.  We 
see  these  shadows  and  gain  ideas  of  form  from 
them,  the  eye  finding  rest  in  their  dark  depths 
by  contrast  with  the  occasional  sharp  breaks  of 
high  light.  Looking  down  from  a  height  in- 
volves a  wholesale  destruction  of  shadows,  for 
we  do  not  see  them  at  all,  and  there  is  a  conse- 
quent distortion  of  form.  Every  object  is  seen 
in  its  high  light ;  not  one  is  seen  in  its  shad- 
owed portion.  More  than  that,  the  look  down- 
ward means  a  monotony  of  light  and  a  monotony 
of  color.  The  direct  sunlight  is  over  all  and  is 
reflected  back  to  us  from  every  surface.  Local 
color  is  bleached  and  changed  by  this,  just  as 
the  color  of  a  mountain-lake  is  lost  in  sky  re- 
flection. Finally,  when  we  add  to  these  distor- 
tions of  the  usual  appearance  the  gray  and  hazy 
effect  produced  by  seeing  the  world  through  a 
dense  stratum  of  blue  air,  we  have,  I  think, 
sufficient  reason  for  saying  that  the  view  from 
mountain-heights,  looking  down,  is  not  by  any 
means  the  best  view. 

And,  strangely  enough,  people  on  mountain- 


Distorted 
light  and 
color. 


222 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


heights  are  forever  looking  down.  If  they 
would  only  look  up  they  might  see  two  features 
that  are  the  better  for  being  seen  from  high 
gronnd.  I  mean  the  sky  and  the  clouds.  The 
whole  firmament  seems  to  expand  ;  and  the 
curve  down  and  around  the  world,  given  by 
the  perspective  of  the  clouds,  is  most  impres- 
sive in  its  sweep.  And  what  intensity  of 
color  in  the  violet-blue !  What  wonderful 
luminosity  in  the  small,  white  cumulus  and  the 
feathery  cirrus  clouds  !  But  this  sky  view  is 
the  one  that  people  seldom  see.  They  climb 
for  the  scenic  view,  which  means  a  search  for 
familiar  objects  on  the  map  below  them.  In 
fact,  it  is  more  curiosity  than  a  sense  of  beauty 
that  prompts  the  climbing ;  for  the  most  per- 
fect landscape  is  seen  from  level  ground,  with 
the  great  sky  space  overhead  as  a  leading 
feature. 

The  mountains  themselves  are  seen  at  their 
best  looking  up  from  the  valley.  The  view 
expanding,  peak  on  peak,  until  finally  the  top- 
most spine  is  reached,  is  more  complete  than 
when  one  stands  on  the  top  and  looks  over 
snow-fields,  down  gorges  and  glaciers  into  the 
valley.  The  very  grandeur  of  mountains  lies 
in  their  height,  mass,  strength,  and  sky  lines, 


MOUNTAINS  AND   HILLS 


223 


and  none  of  these  is  seen  so  well  from  the  peak 
as  from  the  valley.  And  here  comes  in  the  The 
normal  truth  of  color  and  shadow.  Looking 
up,  we  have  great  masses  of  shadow  broken  by 
large  expanses  of  light.  Every  cliff,  every 
scar,  every  stone  reveal  them ;  and  as  the  snow 
is  reached,  blue  patches  of  it  in  shadow  are 
contrasted  with  great  pink  fields  of  it  in  sun- 
light. Color  is  everywhere.  The  wall  of  the 
chasm  is  dappled  with  a  hundred  hues,  the 
forests  of  pine  stand  in  masses  of  dark  green, 
the  grass  strips  show  pale  green  flecked  with  | 
yellow,  the  glacier  ice  is  blue-green,  the  rocks 
are  gray,  sometimes  the  needles  of  the  peaks  are 
dashed  with  cream-yellow  at  sunrise,  or  turned 
to  pinkish-rose  at  sunset,  and  back  of  it  all 
is  the  blue  sky  for  a  ground.  The  moun- 
tain's grandeur  of  bulk  and  line,  its  beauty 
of  color  and  light  are  practically  destroyed  for 
us  when  we  are  standing  upon  the  peak.  "We 
have,  in  short,  the  wrong  point  of  view. 

While  not  so  impressive,  perhaps,  in  their 
sense  of  loftiness,  the  mountains  and  ridges, 
that  are  but  a  few  thousand  feet  high,  and  have 
no  snow  belts,  are  often  more  beautiful  to  look 
upon  than  the  Alps  or  the  Andes.  Their  tops 
may  be  turreted  with  rocks  here  and  there, 


colort. 


Thelawer 
range*. 


224 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


but  the  jagged,  saw-like  effect  of  the  higher 
peaks  is  gone.  The  sharp  diagonal  and  the 
perpendicular  line  give  place  to  the  horizon- 
tal and  the  rolling  line.  These  mountains  are 
worn  smooth  by  the  elements,  all  the  surfaces 
are  rounded,  and  timber  and  grass  grow  readily 
upon  them.  But  the  mountain  silhouette  is 
still  apparent  in  clear-cut  rim  ;  and  everywhere 
trailing  along  the  sky  the  eye  meets  the  sweep- 
ing lines  of  ridge  and  promontory,  or  the  bil- 
lowy roll  of  descending  lines  flowing  down  by 
terraces  into  the  valleys.  How  very  beautiful 
these  are  in  their  undulation,  as  they  join  ridge 
upon  ridge  in  rhythmical  sequence  !  They  twine 
and  intertwine,  curve  and  intercurve,  weave 
and  interweave  along  the  sky  and  through 
the  valley,  until  the  whole  fabric  of  the  hills 
seems  like  a  precious  decorative  pattern  of 
green  and  purple  embroidered  on  a  blue-gray 
ground.  There  are  no  lines  in  nature  more 
beautiful  (save  only  water  lines)  than  those  of 
the  mountains  and  the  hills — particularly  the 
untimbered  hills,  for  as  we  descend  from  lofty 
heights  the  forms  grow  more  graceful  and 
rhythmical  at  every  step. 

And  you  who  have,  perhaps,  lived  for  years 
with  these  mountains  visible  from  your  win- 


MOUNTAINS   AND   HILLS 


225 


dow,  have  you  noticed  how  they  vary  with 
the  different  lights  and  atmospheres  ?  Have 
you  seen  them  at  sunrise  lying  off  in  the  west, 
when  the  light  is  on  them  instead  of  behind 
them,  and  each  barren  crag  gleams  like  a  star, 
when  the  pine  forest  on  the  ridge  is  pale  and 
blue,  and  the  network  of  interblended  lines  is 
woven  faint  and  fleecy  against  the  dark  ground 
of  the  half -awakened  sky  ?  How  cold  and  still 
are  the  valleys  in  shadow,  and  how  spectre-like 
the  mists  floating  hither  and  thither,  knocking 
themselves  to  pieces  on  the  mountain-side,  and 
finally  dying  out  like  smoke  against  the  clear 
sky  !  Have  you  noticed  them  at  noon,  when 
the  sun  in  the  zenith  has  bleached  their  forest- 
greens  to  grays  and  blues,  when  the  valleys 
drowse  in  the  blazing  light  and  the  sky  lines  are 
vague  almost  to  the  point  of  obliteration  ? 
What  a  thick  veil  of  silver-blue  air  lies  in  the 
valleys  and  along  the  ridges,  blurring  and  ob- 
scuring everything  with  delicate  fingers  un- 
til the  far-off  peaks  seem  turning  into  clouds  ! 
The  mountains  lie  enchanted  under  the  wand 
of  the  sunlight  like  the  princes  in  Elfland. 
No  sound,  no  wind,  no  motion;  silent  they 
rest  under  the  falling  light,  reflecting  the  sky 
above  them.  Of  course,  you  have  seen  these 


226 


NATURE  FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


mountains  at  sunset,  for  then  the  light  is  behind 
them,  and  they  stand  in  dark  relief  against  a 
sky  brilliant  in  color.  The  strength  of  an  out- 
line lies  in  its  revealing  the  bulk  of  the  body  it  en- 
closes, and  how  well  the  silhouette  gives  the  feel- 
ing of  the  mountain -mass  !  The  shadowed  side 
turned  toward  us  is  a  great  belt  of  cold  purple, 
extending  along  from  valley  to  valley,  creeping 
up  toward  the  crests,  and  seeming  more  purple 
than  usual,  perhaps,  for  the  complementary  yel- 
low light  that  is  above  it  in  the  sky.  At  twi- 
light this  range  of  mountains  seems  the  division 
line  between  the  world  of  day  and  the  world 
of  night.  Deep  shadow  is  flooding  in  from 
the  east,  brilliant  light  is  in  the  west,  and  be- 
tween them  runs  the  dark  mountain-barrier. 
It  will  light  up  presently  under  the  pale  glow 
of  the  moon,  and  the  pines  on  the  ridges  will 
wave  ghost-like  in  the  blue  night  air  ;  but  now 
how  shadowy  and  cool  the  mountains  lie,  and 
what  a  vivid  contrast  to  the  glowing  heat  of 
the  firmament  over  them  !  It  is  one  of  the 
contrasts  we  all  love,  and  however  little  people 
may  fancy  nature,  there  are  few  who  will  not 
turn  to  see  the  splendor  of  the  western  sky 
flaming  above  the  mountain-ramparts. 
If  we  shift  our  point  of  view,  we  shall  see 


MOUNTAINS   AND   HILLS 


227 


effects  of  equal  splendor  when  the  mountains 
are  lying  to  the  east  and  are  taking  color  from 
the  last  rays  of  the  sun.  They  are  far  more  brill- 
iant in  hue  than  the  western  mountains,  struck 
by  the  light  of  early  morning.  The  warmth  of 
color  is  greater,  because  the  sunlight  in  the 
morning  passes  through  cool  and  clarified  air, 
and  at  evening  the  same  sunlight  throws  its 
light  eastward  through  a  heated  and  dust-laden 
air.  The  difference  in  atmosphere  makes  the 
difference  in  color  and  light,  and  these  in  turn 
make  a  decided  change  in  the  east-lying  moun- 
tains at  sunset.  Indeed,  form  as  shown  in  the 
outline  and  the  shadowy  silhouette  is  not  now 
conspicuous.  Lines  are  dissipated  and  surfaces 
are  flattened  into  tints.  The  range  may  be 
shadowed  at  its  base  —  a  deep,  hazy  shadow 
— while  the  tops  may  be  in  full  sunlight  and 
receive  the  glow  of  the  western  sky  on  every 
bush  and  tree  and  crag  with  startling  effect. 
The  total  result  of  reflected  light  from  the  range 
may  be  copper-color,  pale  yellow,  rosy-red,  or 
silver-gray  ;  and  upon  such  a  feature  as  a  tall 
spur  or  bare  peak  the  color  may  change  from  yel- 
low to  pink,  from  pink  to  gray,  from  gray  to 
purple,  until  the  light  goes  out  of  the  west  and 
the  spur  darkens  and  looms  against  the  eastern 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


The  Alpt  in 
ttorm. 


Seen  in  lake 
reJUctton. 


sky  like  a  cathedral  tower,  its  edges  lined  with 
bright  silver  from  the  light  of  the  rising  moon 
behind  it. 

Beautiful  as  the  mountains  are  under  sun- 
light and  moonlight,  they  are  often  more  im- 
pressive under  clouds  with  storm.  The  lofty 
majesty  of  the  greater  Alps  in  furious  weather, 
their  calm  repose  among  all  the  turmoil  of  the 
elements,  the  mighty  lift  of  the  white,  sunlit 
peaks  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  valley,  are  sights 
never  to  be  forgotten.  The  noisy  winds,  the 
sharp  lightning,  the  torrents  of  rain  that  dash 
against  the  granite  walls  or  hide  from  view  the 
timber-robed  sides,  are  mere  sound  and  fury 
signifying  nothing.  The  mountain  is  not 
moved.  Secure  in  its  strength,  it  holds  its 
head  above  the  storm  and  lives  in  the  sun- 
light. Very  beautiful  indeed,  are  the  tem- 
pests in  the  Alpine  valleys,  with  darkness  be- 
low and  light  above,  and  all  that  that  implies 
of  color-contrast.  Nor  does  the  scene  suffer  any 
by  being  mirrored  in  the  greenish-blue  waters 
of  the  Swiss  lakes.  Oftentimes  the  whole  pano- 
rama of  the  upper  air — cloud,  lightning,  green 
forest,  gray  rock,  and  sunlit  snow-cap — may 
be  seen  in  the  lake  darkened  and  deepened  in 
tone  by  the  local  color  of  the  water.  The  Al- 


MOUNTAINS  AND   HILLS 


229 


pine  valleys  may  not  be  the  spots  of  the  earth  that 
one  would  choose  for  permanent  residence,  be- 
cause the  sights  they  offer  are  too  stupendous 
for  daily  contemplation  ;  but  surely  they  offer 
the  sublimities — the  grander  beauties  of  the 
earth  and  the  elements — better  than  almost  any 
other  mountainous  region. 

A  mountain  is  a  mountain,  and  belongs  to  an 
order  as  human  beings  to  a  race,  bui  there  is 
quite  as  much  of  peculiarity  in  the  separate 
peaks  as  there  is  individuality  in  different  men. 
It  does  not  appear  so  at  first.  We  think  all 
mountains  are  substantially  alike,  just  as  we 
think  all  Mongolians  have  the  same  feat- 
ures ;  but  a  little  study  shows  that  there  are 
never  any  two  of  them  of  the  same  form,  color, 
or  characteristics.  Even  ranges  differ  greatly 
in  appearance.  The  Alps  are  not  like  the 
Andes,  the  Alleghanies  are  not  like  the  Rock- 
ies ;  and  how  different  are  the  Harz  Moun- 
tains, with  their  green  slopes  and  cold  blue  air, 
when  compared  with  the  bare  Tuscan  moun- 
tains, so  positive  in  their  light  and  warmth! 
Wherein  lies  the  individuality  of  the  isolated 
mountain  it  is  difficult  to  say.  It  may  have  height 
and  arrowy  dignity  compared  with  its  squat, 
smooth,  or  ragged  neighbors ;  it  may  be  distin- 


Mountain 
individual- 
ity. 


230 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


guished  by  forms  of  timber,  rock,  or  grass,  but 
these  features  often  undergo  odd  changes  with 
various  lights.  The  mountain  lines  against  the 
sky  change  also  as  we  change  our  position.  We 
think  we  know  the  profile  until  we  see  it  from 
a  different  side  and  in  a  different  light.  The 
Man's  Head,  the  Anthony's  Nose,  or  the  Devil's 
Pipe,  outlined  by  some  projecting  crag  against 
the  sky,  has  nothing  to  do  with  mountain  in- 
dividuality, though  it  may  have  to  do  with  local 
name  and  identity.  Such  fancied  marks  lose 
all  likeness  as  soon  as  we  move  away  from  a 
certain  position.  Even  the  little  hills  have  a 
way  of  tricking  us  with  different  aspects  ;  and 
every  hunter  in  the  Bad  Lands  who  has  made 
a  mental  "  blaze  "  of  a  butte  on  his  trail  knows 
how  often  he  has  failed  to  recognize  that  butte 
when  coming  upon  it  from  a  new  direction. 

Bulk  and  mass  also  have  some  influence 
in  marking  the  mountain,  though  these,  too, 
apparently  change  as  we  shift  our  standing 
ground  ;  and  color  gives  some  distinct  charac- 
ter, yet  this  is,  perhaps,  the  most  inconstant 
of  all  mountain  features.  There  are  few  things 
in  nature  that  can  show  distorted  color  so 
well  as  a  mountain-top  under  sunlight.  The 
light  is  continually  bleaching  or  heightening 


MOUNTAINS   AND   HILLS 


231 


the  color  in  such  a  way  that  it  appears  odd  to 
our  eyes.  This  is  peculiarly  true  of  the  noon- 
day light,  which  flattens  a  dark  stone-color  to 
a  silver-gray,  and  will  turn  a  belt  of  pine 
timber  from  a  dark  green  to  a  pale  blue.  Fi- 
nally, there  is  always  some  difference  in  moun- 
tain appearance,  dependent  on  the  thickness  or 
thinness  of  the  atmosphere,  to  which  must  be 
added  allowance  for  the  distortion  caused  by 
the  top  of  the  mountain  being  usually  ob- 
served through  a  thinner  layer  of  air  than  the 


When  all  these  features  are  considered,  the 
mountain  instead  of  being  a  steadfast,  unvary- 
ing tower  of  rock  is,  to  all  appearance,  one  of 
nature's  fickle  creations.  It  shifts  countenance 
as  many  times  in  a  day  as  the  sky  above  it.  One 
moment  it  is  blue  under  direct  light,  the 
next  it  is  green  under  cloud-light ;  at  dawn  it 
is  gray ;  at  sunset  it  may  be  golden  or  even 
red  ;  at  night  it  is  cold  purple.  The  changes  are 
less  marked  on  a  cloudy  day,  and  a  mountain's 
bulk,  height,  and  surface  are  seen  to  better 
advantage  then — yes,  even  on  a  rainy  day,  when 
clouds  are  hanging  about  the  peaks — than  un- 
der sunlight. 

A  hill,  as  we  have  already  noted,  may  be  a 


Influence  of 
atmosphere. 


Light 
change*. 


232 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


worn-down  mountain,  or  it  may  be  mere  glacier 
push,  or  again,  it  may  be  a  hard  core  of  rock 
that  has  defied  the  wear  of  water.  The  va- 
riety of  hills  is  even  greater  than  that  of  moun- 
tains. Often  they  are  banded  together  in 
groups  or  chains  and  dignified  with  the  name 
of  "  mountains ;"  sometimes  they  are  in  clus- 
ters and  lie  nestled  together  along  a  river's 
course  ;  and  sometimes  they  rise  singly  from  a 
flat  basin  or  plain.  They  almost  always  show 
the  effects  of  erosion,  and,  indeed,  the  marks 
of  the  streams  about  their  bases  and  sides  can 
be  easily  traced.  The  tops  and  sides,  washed 
by  rains,  have  enough  soil  for  vegetation,  and 
trees  or  coverings  like  the  heather  grow  readily 
upon  them.  Every  country  has  its  different 
kinds  of  hills,  and  in  Great  Britain  almost 
every  shire  will  show  a  new  species.  The  bare 
cliff-hills  along  the  English  Channel  near  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  so  clear  and  pure  and  beautiful 
in  their  sky  lines,  are  different  from  the  rugged 
hills  of  Scotland,  with  great  bowlders  sunk 
in  the  purple  heather  of  the  peat-beds  ;  and 
every  traveller  must  have  noticed  the  change 
from  the  flat  hills  of  Suffolk  to  the  abrupt 
ranges  of  Derbyshire. 

The  damp  climate  and  the  heavy  rainfalls  of 


MOUNTAINS  AND   HILLS 


233 


Great  Britain  have  made  it  a  country  of  hills. 
Nowhere  are  they  to  be  seen  in  such  beautiful 
combinations,  and  to  them  England,  in  particu- 
lar, is  much  indebted  for  its  beautiful  scenery. 
In  all  seasons,  in  foliage  or  with  snow,  the  coun- 
try of  low  hills  is  an  attractive  country.  The 
charm  of  Normandy  and  the  Rhine  provinces, 
as  of  New  England,  lies  in  the  broken,  undu- 
lating surface.  To  whatever  point  of  the  com- 
pass we  turn  there  is  unity  in  variety.  The 
amphitheatre  of  hills  surrounding  Amherst 
in  Massachusetts  does  not  grow  monotonous  to 
those  who  look  out  upon  it  from  day  to  day.  The 
encircling  parapets  always  have  a  new  tale  to 
tell,  a  new  wonder  to  reveal.  No  sun  gilds 
them  twice  in  just  the  same  way,  no  atmosphere 
is  repeated  for  any  two  days,  and  the  mantle  of 
green  in  summer,  the  robe  of  white  in  winter, 
are  never  the  same  from  year  to  year. 

Fortunately  enough  the  round-topped  hill, 
upon  which  the  Assyrian  built  a  city  and  the 
mediaeval  baron  a  castle,  is  to-day  left  to  nature 
to  do  with  as  it  pleases.  The  modern  builder 
places  his  city  on  flat  ground,  and  if  there  is 
any  little  mound  in  his  way  he  levels  it  into 
any  little  valley  that  may  be  near  at  hand.  He 
wishes  everything  flat  and  squared  in  his  city, 


Few 

England 

range*. 


Hilltand 

civilization. 


234 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


though  from  his  own  door-yard  he  likes  well 
enough  to  see  the  hills  in  the  distance.  And 
in  the  distance  they  lie  covered  with  grass 
and  timber,  gladdening  the  eyes  that  look  at 
them.  The  cattle  go  to  them  in  the  heated 
season,  as  the  birds  in  times  of  cold  and  storm, 
and  down  their  sides  of  moss  and  rock  run  the 
little  streams  that  keep  the  valley  green  and 
turn  the  mill-wheels  of  the  factories.  They  are 
always  beautiful,  breaking  as  they  do  the  horizon 
line  with  new  forms,  new  colors,  and  new  lights. 
And  we  need  not  be  disquieted  about  them 
because  they  are  worn-out  mountains  and  must 
eventually  become  flat  meadows.  True  enough, 
they  are  passing  away.  The  bare  butte  of 
Montana  is  slowly  sinking  into  a  lump  of  form- 
less clay  because  it  has  no  covering  to  shield  it 
from  the  elements.  The  New  England  hills 
and  the  hills  of  Old  England  are  sinking,  too. 
It  is  nature's  plan  to  beat  down  the  mountain 
into  the  dust  of  the  plain  and  the  sand  of  the 
sea-shore;  but  the  plan  will  take  many  ages  for 
its  fulfilment.  To-day  the  little  hills  clap  their 
hands  and  rejoice  as  in  the  days  of  David. 
They  will  not  disappear  until  another  David 
comes. 


CHAPTER  XH 

VALLEYS,   PLAINS,   AND  LOWLANDS 

THE  lines  that  give  character  to  the  moun- 
tains, the  valleys,  and  the  plains  also  create  in 
ns  definite  feelings  or  impressions.  When  nat- 
ure shows  us  the  broken  or  abrupt  line  we  gain 
from  it  an  impression  of  activity  or  restless- 
ness ;  when  we  see  the  long,  diagonal  line  the 
impression  received  is  one  of  swift  movement, 
as  in  the  downward  flight  of  an  eagle;  when 
the  flat,  horizontal  line  appears  the  impression 
is  one  of  rest,  peace,  inaction,  even  drowsiness 
and  sleep.  Hence  it  is  that  people  speak  of  the 
abrupt  and  broken  mountains  as  representing 
the  earth's  action,  while  the  low-lying  marshes 
and  meadows  represent  its  repose.  There  is  a 
truth  of  feeling  or  imagination  in  this.  The 
broken  peaks  and  spurs,  jutting  up  from  the 
mountain's  ridge  against  the  sky,  certainly  do 
seem  restless,  suggestive  of  motion ;  while  the 
meadows,  where  flowers  grow  and  bees  hum  and 
cattle  recline  at  noontide  under  the  trees,  are 


Line-im- 
prurion* 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


The  "  tleep- 
ng"  valley. 


nlenot. 


just  as  truly  suggestive  of  listlessness,  idleness, 
and  sleep. 

These  impressions  produced  by  nature's  lines 
are  doubtless  wholly  subjective,  yet  they  seem 
positive  realities  to  us.  A  man  can  no  more 
rest  on  a  mountain-peak  than  he  can  sleep 
standing  upright.  The  perpendicular  affects 
him  one  way,  the  horizontal  quite  another  way ; 
and  rhetoric  has  not  erred  in  speaking  of  the 
"  restless "  mountains,  though  they  are  as  mo- 
tionless as  the  plains ;  nor  of  the  "  sleeping  " 
valley,  though  a  valley  never  sleeps  or  wakes. 
Perhaps  the  chief  characteristic  of  the  valley  is 
its  repose.  It  is  always  still,  except  when  set 
whispering  with  winds  or  roaring  with  storms ; 
and  the  deeper,  the  more  shut  in  it  is,  the 
greater  seems  its  hush.  Standing  above  it  at 
mid-day,  with  light  and  shadow  lying  along 
its  sides,  the  stillness  seems  like  the  silence 
of  untenanted  space.  A  rifle-shot  or  a  human 
voice  breaks  upon  the  sensitive  air  with  a  sharp 
crash,  and  the  echoes  set  flying  by  it  reverber- 
ate and  pass  out  of  the  canon  ricocheting  from 
rock  to  rock  with  the  elasticity  of  a  rubber 
ball.  Quite  a  different  affair,  too,  is  the  sound 
of  thunder  in  a  mountain-valley  compared  with 
the  thunder  heard  on  the  plains.  The  clap  and 


VALLEYS,  PLAINS,  AND   LOWLANDS 


237 


peal  are  terrific ;  the  roll  from  side  to  side  is 
repeated  again  and  again,  until  at  last  it  dies 
off  up  the  gulch  in  a  muttering  rumble  that 
shakes  the  whole  atmospheric  envelope.  It 
is  only  an  accidental  affair,  and  as  soon  as 
the  storm  has  passed,  the  valley  once  more  ad- 
dresses itself  to  sleep.  The  mountain-shadows 
lie  clear  and  cool  along  the  ascending  slopes, 
and  as  the  valley  drowses  the  day  through,  these 
shadows  grow  longer,  each  one  stealing  silently 
down  the  western  side,  crossing  the  valley- 
brook,  and  creeping  up  the  far  eastern  slopes 
as  the  sun  sinks  down  beyond  the  monntain- 


And  what  masses  of  shadow  there  are  in  a 
valley !  However  it  may  lie  as  regards  the 
points  of  the  compass  it  is  always  sure  to  have 
its  slopes,  its  hills,  and  its  mounds  that  cut 
off  the  sun's  rays  and  create  the  dark-green 
patch.  Even  where  the  valley  is  quite  wide, 
the  timber  that  usually  grows  thick  in  the 
basin  creates  its  own  shadow  in  an  almost  im- 
penetrable screen  of  foliage  that  shuts  out  the 
sun.  These  forest  shadows  are  usually  dark, 
moisture-laden  masses,  deep  green  in  hue,  and 
seldom  marked  by  brilliant  colors.  In  fact,  the 
mountain-valley  is  not  the  place  where  nature 


Bchoet. 


Shadme*  in 
the  valley. 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


puts  on  her  most  gorgeous  garments.  Occa- 
sionally, in  what  are  called  the  "sunset "  val- 
leys— that  is,  valleys  running  east  and  west — 
there  is  some  warmth  of  color,  and  in  autumn, 
with  the  yellow  foliage  and  the  Indian-summer 
haze,  there  is  often  great  display  ;  but  during 
the  hot  months  the  predominant  note  is  green, 
save  where  in  the  distant  gulches  and  coolees 
the  blues  and  purples  assert  themselves. 

There  are  two  ways  by  which  the  mountain- 
valley  may  come  into  existence.  The  first  is 
by  the  cutting-away  process  of  torrents;  the 
second  is  by  depression.  Oftentimes  the  heave 
of  the  fold  that  has  lifted  the  mountain-peak 
skyward  has  allowed  the  valley  to  sink  back 
and  downward.  A  depression  is  thus  formed 
which  the  wear  of  water  immediately  increases. 
Some  valleys  are  even  sunk  lower  than  the  sur- 
rounding country — so  low  as  to  make  a  hollow 
— and  in  time  the  waters  flowing  into  them 
form  the  long,  twisting  mountain-lake  of 
which  the  Lake  of  Lucerne  in  Switzerland  is 
an  illustration.  More  often,  however,  the  val- 
ley is  elevated  above  its  surrounding  plains. 
From  its  walls  one  can  always  gain  an  approxi- 
mate idea  of  its  age,  as  from  the  peaks  one 
knows  the  age  of  the  mountains.  Abrupt  sides 


VALLEYS,  PLAINS,  AND  LOWLANDo 


239 


of  rock,  with  precipices  and  overhanging  crags, 
prove  one  of  two  things  :  Either  the  rock  is 
very  hard  or  the  exposure  is  very  new.  The 
wear  of  the  elements  tends  to  round,  smooth, 
and  flatten  down  all  such  sharp  projections. 
In  the  older  valleys  of  the  world,  such  as  those 
of  the  Alleghanies,  the  sides  are  sloping,  the 
basins  rounded,  and  the  lines  against  the  sky 
show  only  the  smoothest  curves.  Usually  a 
small  river  or  brook  winds  its  way  down  the 
larger  valleys,  cutting  out  the  soft  deposits  of 
earth  and  forming  banks  or  cliffs  on  either  side, 
where  vines  clamber  and  stunted  pines  cling  in 
the  fissures  of  the  rocks,  and  small  trickling 
streams  drip  from  under  thick  carpetings  of 
moss.  It  is  usually  a  noisy,  swift-running 
stream,  dashing  its  way  seaward  over  shelves  of 
stone  and  gravel,  winding  in  and  out  of  deep 
pools,  and  swirling  around  sharp  bends  in 
eddies  and  circles.  Its  tributaries  are  the  little 
cold-water-  rivulets  that  come  down  the  side 
gulches,  springing  over  ledges  and  bubbling 
into  basins — streams  where  the  young  trout 
splash  in  their  leaps  up  the  falls,  and  where 
the  stealthy -footed  inhabitants  of  the  wood 
come  to  drink. 
The  brook,  the  river,  the  valley,  and  the 


Sloping 
tides  and 
smooth 


The  brook 
again. 


240 


NATURE   FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


mountain-walls  all  have  their  special  features 
that  attract ;  the  brook  in  its  flashing  motion 
and  light,  the  valley  in  its  mass  of  foliage,  the 
mountain-walls  in  their  color,  their  shadows, 
their  bulk,  and  their  lift  against  the  sky.  All 
of  them  are  seen  at  their  best  during  the 
months  of  summer.  In  October,  when  the 
autumn  leaf  is  rustling,  and  the  rain  begins  to 
fall  on  bare  boughs,  a  strange  feeling  comes 
over  one  in  looking  at  the  valley — a  feeling 
that  its  bright  days  are  numbered,  and  that 
it  will  soon  be  sleeping  under  ice  and  snow, 
with  its  protecting  mountains  looming  dark 
and  grim  through  the  long  nights  of  winter. 
But  at  any  time  of  the  year,  and  with  all  the 
beauties  the  valley  may  reveal,  it  is  not  the 
best  place  for  habitation.  The  conditions  of 
life  are  harder  there  than  on  the  flat-lands ; 
and  the  density  of  the  shade,  the  jungle  qual- 
ity of  the  foliage,  the  enclosing  walls  of  the 
mountains,  are  all  oppressive — in  a  way  stifling 
and  stunting  in  their  effect.  The  very  animals 
and  the  birds  seem  to  feel  this,  for  they  are 
not  so  frequently  found  here  as  upon  the 
edges  of  the  flat  plains,  where  the  country  is 
open.  Man  himself  grows  rather  heavy  and 
stolid  when  hemmed  in  by  mountains,  or  sur- 


VALLEYS,  PLAINS,  AND   LOWLANDS 


241 


rounded  by  heavy  timber.  The  open  coun- 
try, where  the  sun  shines  through  the  shade, 
where  the  soil  is  free  from  rock  and  the 
tree  from  moss,  is  the  better  abiding-place. 
In  such  a  country  man  moves  hither  and 
thither  with  greater  ease,  the  climatic  condi- 
tions are  more  endurable,  the  earth  is  more 
arable,  the  rainfall  more  equable. 

As  we  descend  from  the  mountains  this  open 
country  first  appears  in  the  table-lands  or  up- 
land plateaus.  They  are  usually  high  above 
sea-level,  sometimes  several  thousand  feet ;  and 
in  appearance  they  have  something  of  the 
rugged-broken  surface  characteristic  of  moun- 
tains, mingled  with  features  peculiar  to  the 
prairies.  These  table-lands  are  often  open,  tree- 
less regions,  and  are  generally  arid.  The  atmos- 
phere above  them  is  dry,  and  so  clear  that 
objects  appear  nearer  than  they  really  are — 
outlines  of  mountains,  for  instance,  showing 
very  distinct,  though  many  miles  away.  On  al- 
most all  the  high  plateaus  distances  are  decep- 
tive, lights  are  brilliant,  and  the  blue  sky  above 
glows  with  a  wonderful  intensity,  and  not  infre- 
quently with  a  violet  tinge  about  it. 

The  Montana  table-lands  are  perhaps  excep- 
tional. They  are  full  of  abrupt  breaks,  with 


242 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


here  and  there  sawed-off  mountains  that  are 
succeeded  by  flat  basins,  where  once  the  buffalo 
grazed  in  countless  numbers,  and  where  even 
to-day  one  may  occasionally  see  the  sheeny  coat 
of  an  antelope  glistening  in  the  sun.  The 
eastern  portion  of  the  state  bordering  on  Da- 
kota shows  in  its  cliffs,  buttes,  and  gravel  beds 
a  land  once  shaken  by  volcanic  convulsion,  and 
water-swept  by  flood  and  glacier.  Timber  is 
rarely  seen  upon  it,  grass  grows  in  small  tufts 
but  a  few  inches  high,  and  the  predominant 
growth  is  sage-bush  and  cactus.  Yet  its  weird- 
ness  and  its  desolation  make  it  attractive  ;  and 
to  one  interested  in  color  it  is  the  queerest 
region  in  all  the  world.  The  dry,  alkaline  clay 
throws  off  local  hues  of  red,  orange,  pink,  and 
yellow  with  the  first  glint  of  sunshine  ;  and  the 
shadows  are  blue,  violet,  and  lilac.  These  are 
the  same  hues  of  decay  that  we  met  with  in 
Venice,  for  the  Bad  Lands  region  died  centuries 
ago.  It  is  to-day  showing  us  that  beauty  of 
color  which  we  see  in  iridescent  glass,  and  the 
cause  of  the  one  is  the  cause  of  the  other  ;  that 
is  to  say,  the  disintegration  of  fibre,  the  chemi- 
cal rot  of  matter. 

But  the  Bad  Lands  country  is  something  of 
an  accident  of  nature — a  tumbled  and  broken 


VALLEYS,  PLAINS,  AND   LOWLANDS 


243 


district  isolated  from  the  table-land  family. 
The  Arizona  and  the  Colorado  countries  are 
very  different  from  it,  and  neither  of  these 
bears  nmch  likeness  to  the  Asiatic  table- 
lands, like  the  steppes  of  Siberia  or  the  great 
plateau  of  Tibet.  All  of  them  are  fine  in 
horizon  and  mountain  lines,  in  skies,  and  in  at- 
mospheres. All  of  them  again  have  picturesque 
spots,  where  swales  and  basins  fall  into  graceful 
shapes,  where  water  runs,  and  grass  grows.  And 
again,  all  of  them  are  stimulating  in  their  wild- 
ness  and  aloofness  from  civilization.  These  are 
the  primeval  tracts,  never  subjugated  by  the 
plough — the  free  spaces  of  the  world,  where  the 
wind  blows  up  and  over  the  hills  and  ridges, 
blowing  toward  No  Man's  Land.  The  feeling 
of  solitude,  of  being  alone  with  nature,  is  omni- 
present ;  and  there  is  enough  of  the  savage  in 
everyone  to  feel  pleasure  in  that  sensation.  We 
may  aspire  to  the  stars  mentally  and  spiritually, 
but  nature  made  our  feet  to  tread  the  earth. 
The  animal  in  us  cannot  be  wholly  eradicated 
by  any  course  of  ascetic  training.  I  have  seen 
wild  horses  on  a  high  ridge  snorting  with  de- 
light at  the  sun  and  the  wind  ;  given  the  op- 
portunity, the  physical  in  man  will  assert  itself 
just  as  strongly. 


244 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


Lower  down  than  the  table-land  comes  the 
American  "prairie."  It  is  not  so  abrupt  in 
form  as  the  table-land,  but  was  once  very  like 
it  in  the  feeling  of  wildness  which  it  fostered. 
The  name  was  originally  given  by  the  French 
voyageurs  to  the  flat  plains  of  Illinois  and 
Indiana ;  but  it  has  been  applied  of  late  years 
chiefly  to  the  long  rolls  of  land  that  stretch 
across  Dakota,  Iowa,  Nebraska,  and  Kansas. 
Their  forms  have  been  likened  to  the  great 
swells  of  a  tropical  sea.  The  land  rises  in  crests 
called  "  divides,"  and  sinks  into  hollows  called 
"  swales."  The  grass  once  grew  rank  and  tall 
on  these  prairies,  bending  and  rolling  in  the 
wind,  but  from  their  earliest  discovery  trees 
have  been  known  upon  them  only  in  isolated 
spots  along  river  bottoms.  The  absence  of 
trees  on  these  fertile  lands  has  never  been  satis- 
factorily explained.  They  grow  there  readily 
enough  to-day  when  planted  by  man,  but  for 
centuries  nature  planted  and  grew  nothing  but 
grass.  It  is  said  that  the  burning  of  the  grass 
by  the  Indians,  to  drive  game,  destroyed  the 
timber-growth,  but  the  explanation  is  of  doubt- 
ful value.  The  great  conflagration  of  the  plains 
that  the  Indian  novelist  has  told  us  about,  is  at 
best  a  lively  piece  of  the  imagination.  In  cer- 


VALLEYS,  PLAINS,  AND   LOWLANDS  245 


Prairie 
firu. 


tain  areas  there  have  been  fierce  blazes  with 
high  winds;  but  the  hundred-mile  sheet  of 
flame  that  travelled  faster  than  a  horse  could 
run  and  led  up  to  the  dramatic  race  for  life,  is 
something  that  no  one — not  even  Kit  Carson 
— ever  saw. 

The  continuous  rise  and  fall  of  the  prairie 
divides  and  swales,  as  one  rode  over  them  years 
ago,  could  hardly  be  called  inspiring.  To  see 
the  sun  come  up  from  the  grass  and  go  down  at 
night  into  the  grass  again ;  to  see  one's  horse 
walking  shoulder-deep  in  it,  and  to  watch  it 
bending  before  a  fast-travelling  gust  of  wind,  The  roii  of 
its  surface  changing  in  greens  and  yellows  like  I  tt**)rome- 
a  changeable  silk,  were  novel  sights  at  first; 
but  they  finally  became  a  little  wearisome.  The 
lack  of  shade,  of  hills,  of  valleys,  of  trees,  of 
water,  was  keenly  felt.  When  chance  brought 
one  upon  a  prairie  pond  fringed  with  tall  rice, 
where  wild  fowl  were  flying  hither  and  thither, 
the  change  was  almost  like  coming  upon  an  oasis 
in  the  desert.  Even  the  round  dry  basins  of  the 
prairie  where  in  the  old  days  the  buffalo  made 
the  night  circle  against  the  wolves,  or  the 
deep  trench  caused  by  cloud-bursts,  proved  of 
exceptional  attractiveness  after  miles  of  travel 
through  that  rank-growing  grass. 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


The  prairii 

mildness. 


But  the  prairies  have  undergone  great  change, 
like  all  things  American.  The  settler  and  the 
plough  have  turned  under  the  Indian  and  the 
buffalo,  the  divides  are  now  planted  with  houses 
and  wire  fences,  and  the  wind  is  blowing  over 
fields  of  wheat  instead  of  prairie  grass.  The 
great  charm  of  the  land,  its  wildness,  has  passed 
away.  Time  was — and  not  more  than  thirty  or 
forty  years  ago  at  that — when  never  a  trace  of 
white  man's  activity  was  seen  on  the  Dakota 
uplands;  when  not  a  railroad  crossed  it,  and 
even  an  Indian  trail  was  almost  unknown.  The 
horseman  found  his  way  by  the  run  of  the 
divides  or  the  sun,  and  every  adventuresome 
explorer  riding  over  that  tract  felt  in  his  heart 
that  he  was  another  Balboa  discovering  the 
Pacific  of  the  plains. 

It  is  not  impossible  that  that  wildness  may 
return  again,  for  nature  has  a  way  of  reassert- 
ing herself  after  long  bending  to  the  will  of  man. 

"  They  say  the  lion  and  the  lizard  keep 
The  courts  where  Jamschyd  gloried  and  drank  deep ; 
And  Bahrain — that  great  hunter — the  wild  ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  head,  but  cannot  break  his  sleep." 

Those  who  have  been  plucking  the  brightest 
skeins  from  the  fabric  of  the  prairies  will  pass 


VALLEYS,  PLAINS,  AND   LOWLANDS 


247 


away,  and  when  their  fingers  are  stilled  the 
great  Penelope  will  once  more  speed  the  shuttle. 
The  prairie  grass  may  wave  again  when  the 
ploughshare  is  beaten  to  dust  and  the  Dakota 
village,  even  in  its  ruins,  shall  have  perished. 
Nature  will  come  to  its  own  again,  for  during 
all  these  centuries  of  man's  dominion  on  the 
earth  it  has  not  ceased  to  whisper  in  the  ear  of 
history:  "They  shall  build,  but  I  will  throw 
down/'  In  its  own  good  time,  the  ravaged 
prairie  will  be  re-covered  with  a  mantle  of 
waving  green ;  the  by-ways  and  the  haunts  of 
man  will  be  obliterated,  and  the  sun  will  shine, 
the  wind  will  blow  up  and  over  the  divides  and 
swales,  blowing  once  more  toward  No  Man's 
Land. 

The  flattest  plains  in  the  world  are  those  that 
have  been  at  one  time  the  beds  of  vast  inland 
seas  or  lakes.  The  plains  of  Hungary  are  of 
this  type.  The  largest  one  is  now  drained  by 
the  Danube,  and  is  not  remarkable  except  for 
its  marshes,  through  which  the  river  winds.  It 
is  not  very  different  in  appearance  from  the  or- 
dinary coast-lying  plain,  which  is  to  be  found 
in  almost  every  sea-bordered  country.  Properly 
speaking,  the  coastal  plain  is  a  tract  of  land 
reclaimed  from  the  sea,  either  by  the  slow  up- 


248 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


heaval  of  a  low-lying  shore  or  by  the  gain  of  silt 
washed  down  to  the  shore  by  the  rivers — some- 
thing won  from  the  sea  either  by  upheaval  or 
accretion.  Holland  is  an  exceptional  illustra- 
tion of  a  marine  plain  reclaimed  from  the  sea 
by  human  ingenuity  aiding  the  favorable  drift 
of  sand  into  dunes  along  the  coast ;  the  State  of 
New  Jersey,  or  at  least  a  part  of  it,  is  an  illus- 
tration of  a  gradual  upheaval  that  has  placed 
the  plain  above  sea-level.  I  do  not  know  the 
geological  formation  of  the  east  coast  of  Eng- 
land, but  I  suppose  it  to  be  a  plain  similar  in 
origin  to  that  of  New  Jersey.  These  tracts  now 
lie  above  inundation,  and  are  broken  by  low 
hills,  stretches  of  meadow  and  timber,  and  slow- 
winding  streams.  They  make  the  arable  and 
the  livable  portions  of  the  globe,  and  in  many  re- 
spects they  are  the  most  picturesque  portions. 
The  flat  horizon  lines,  the  great  sky  depths,  the 
feeling  of  space,  the  expanse  of  light  and  color 
in  the  sky,  are  all  features  that  are  not  im- 
pressive at  first,  but  soon  become  attractive  and 
finally  most  lovable. 

The  lands  subject  to  flooding  by  high  tides 
(perhaps  the  coastal  plains  of  the  future,  now  in 
process  of  formation),  called  marshes  and  mead- 
ows, are  common  enough  along  every  coast 


VALLEYS,  PLAINS,  AND   LOWLANDS 


249 


where  rivers  empty  into  the  sea  and  silt  is 
washed  down.  The  Atlantic  coast  of  America, 
from  Massachusetts  to  Florida,  has  a  plenty  of 
them.  They  are  almost  useless  for  human  oc- 
cupation, and  though  the  soil  grows  a  rank 
vegetation,  it  is  not  edible  for  man  or  beast. 
Because  they  cannot  be  utilized  to  advantage, 
they  have  been  regarded  with  some  contempt 
by  mankind  ;  and  the  preacher,  the  orator,  and 
the  poet  have  always  paralleled  them  with 
human  stagnation  or  vileness.  But  they  do  not 
deserve  such  odious  comparisons.  Humble  and 
peaceful  under  the  falling  sunlight,  they  have 
their  share  of  the  universal  glory,  and  were 
constructed  by  nature  for  a  useful  purpose. 
They  are  the  outer  fortifications  of  the  coast, 
keeping  back  the  sea,  and  growing  strong  vege- 
tation to  prevent  the  wear  of  water  on  the  land. 
How  unsightly  would  be  those  lands  if  it  were 
not  for  their  thick  coverings  of  reeds  and  rushes  ! 
How  beautiful  are  they  now  garmented  in  the 
pale  golden-greens  of  spring,  the  emerald-greens 
of  summer,  or  the  golds  and  browns  of  autumn  ! 
I  have  seen  ordinary  marsh  flags  with  a  low, 
summer  sun  behind  them,  when  every  blade 
looked  as  transparent  as  cathedral  glass,  and 
every  leaf -edge  was  showing  the  colors  of  the 


250 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


spectrum.  And  again,  under  the  morning  sun, 
with  the  wind  blowing  over  them,  I  have  seen 
them  glitter  and  throw  light  from  their  polished 
surfaces  like  the  bayonets  of  a  regiment  on  pa- 
rade. And  still  again  in  mid-winter  I  have  seen 
these  same  commonplace  flags  standing  yellow 
as  gold  above  the  snows,  with  every  stem  cast- 
ing a  bright  blue  shadow,  and  the  whole  scene 
of  marsh,  sky,  and  snow  showing  a  perfect  col- 
or-harmony in  yellow,  blue,  and  white. 

Indeed,  there  are  many  beauties  that  adorn 
these  marshes  unseen  by  the  man  who  wades 
across  them  shod  with  rubber  boots  and  carry- 
ing a  gun  in  his  hand.  There  is  something 
quite  as  beautiful  as  wild  fowl  to  be  seen  from 
the  sunken  "  blind "  on  the  point  of  land. 
The  play  of  light  on  the  flat  mud  near  the 
water,  the  scarlet  sky  reflection  on  the  little 
waves,  the  amethystine  hue  made  by  a  flaw  of 
wind  rippling  the  surface  of  the  bay,  the  splen- 
dor of  the  sky,  the  radiance  of  the  white  clouds, 
are  all  incomparably  fine.  Looking  backward, 
the  rushes  of  the  marsh  extend  for  miles  in  one 
great  sweep  of  color,  till  they  meet  the  woods, 
and  beyond  and  above  the  dark  woodland  mass 
stretches  another  sweep  of  deep  blue  sky.  There 
never  was  a  simpler  or  a  nobler  landscape. 


VALLEYS,  PLAINS,  AND   LOWLANDS 


251 


These  marshes,  whether  seen  in  the  summer, 
when  they  are  so  luxuriant  in  their  greens,  with 
the  flag  in  blossom  and  the  young  cat-tails 
nodding  in  the  breeze,  or  in  the  fall,  when 
nature  is  dying  and  the  reeds  are  day  by  day 
shifting  through  green  to  gold,  when  the  trees 
are  gorgeous  with  autumn  tints  and  the  orange 
stain  of  the  short  grass  is  gathering  and  grow- 
ing and  weaving  itself  into  a  brilliant  carpet 
whose  colors  do  not  fade  until  after  snow  falls — 
seen,  indeed,  at  any  time  of  the  year,  they  are 
far  from  being  the  pestilent  congregation  of 
vapors  and  malaria  which  fancy  usually  pict- 
ures them.  Even  those  marshes  that  lie  close 
to  cities  and  have  ramshackle  factories  scattered 
over  them,  like  the  Hackensack  meadows — 
marshes  that  are  damp  with  mists  and  fogs  and 
thick  with  smoke  and  dust — even  these  have 
their  charm  of  color,  broken  light,  and  atmos- 
phere. In  picturesque  qualities  they  are  almost 
as  fine  as  the  dunes  and  meadows  of  Holland. 

In  abbreviated  proportions  the  same  lowlands 
line  the  shores  of  almost  every  large  river,  par- 
ticularly the  rivers  with  broad  basins.  The 
rushes,  reeds,  and  wild  rice  grow  there  even 
better  than  by  the  sea.  Along  the  Mississippi 
the  low,  flat  spaces  on  either  side  of  the  river, 


252 


NATURE  FOR  ITS  OWN  SAKE 


The 

"bottom- 
lands." 


called  the  "  bottom-lands, "  are  taken  np  by 
marshes,  timber-growth,  and  lakes.  Some- 
times the  lakes  with  flags  surrounding  them 
look  like  the  shore  regions  near  Chesapeake 
Bay;  but  more  often  the  bottom  is  a  vast 
jungle  of  trees,  vines,  and  dense  undergrowth, 
not  unlike  the  Dismal  Swamp  of  Virginia.  Its 
impressive  feature  is  its  luxuriance  of  vege- 
tation. Its  trees  are  often  enormous  in  size, 
the  grass  stands  higher  than  one's  head,  and  the 
ground  is  black  with  the  mould  of  centuries. 
The  sloughs,  or  little  water-ways  connecting 
the  lakes  or  marshes,  run  sluggishly  in  blue- 
brown  streams,  and  the  density  of  the  shade 
scarcely  allows  of  much  sky  reflection  in  their 
coloring.  Sometimes  an  open  spot  in  the  tim- 
ber, where  wild  rice  surrounds  a  small,  shal- 
low lake,  gives  a  bright  dash  of  sunshine  and 
color ;  but  as  a  general  thing  the  bottoms  are 
not  brilliant  in  hue  or  attractive  in  light. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


LEAF  AND  BRANCH 

IT  is  commonly  stated  in  the  encyclopedias, 
I  believe,  that  the  lakes  of  North  America 
contain  half  the  fresh  water  on  the  face  of  the 
globe,  that  the  rivers  of  the  Western  continent 
are  the  largest  and  the  longest  in  existence, 
and  that  the  whole  area  of  North  and  South 
America  is  the  best-watered  and  the  most  fer- 
tile land  in  the  world.  The  truth  of  this  state- 
ment granted,  it  should  follow  that  the  land  of 
the  two  vast  countries  is  more  productive  of 
vegetation  than  any  other  known  to  man. 

This  is  not  merely  an  inference,  it  is  a  state- 
ment of  fact.  The  palms  of  South  America 
have  a  maximum  height  of  from  one  hundred 
and  fifty  to  two  hundred  feet,  the  red- woods  of 
California  are  sometimes  ninety  feet  in  girth, 
and  how  tall  were  once  the  pines  of  the  North- 
west woods  I  cannot  now  say,  but  their  ranks 
were  countless,  and  they  covered  millions  of 
acres.  It  is  true  that  these  are  growths  of  ex- 
253 


The  New 

World 

vegetation. 


254 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


ceptional  size,  things  of  rarity  ;  but  if  we  con- 
sider the  density  of  the  ordinary  woods,  the 
thickness  of  the  undergrowth  in  every  com- 
monplace valley  and  on  every  hill  and  moun- 
tain-side, the  leafiness  of  the  foliage  in  this 
Western  world  becomes  almost  appalling.  No 
dweller  in  the  Eastern  United  States,  who  is 
content  with  a  vacation  in  the  Catskills,  the 
Adirondacks,  or  the  White  Mountains,  can  have 
more  than  a  faint  idea  of  it.  He  is  looking  at 
second-growth  timber  honeycombed  by  the  axe, 
at  fields  broken  by  the  plough,  at  hill-side 
thickets  eaten  by  fire.  The  sparse  remains  of 
the  primeval  forest  in  the  Northwest,  the  tim- 
bered valleys  of  California  and  Oregon,  the  vast 
woods  of  Alaska,  tell  the  tale  of  what  America 
once  was,  and  would  be  yet,  were  nature  al- 
lowed to  build  undisturbed  and  as  it  pleased. 

All  members  of  a  series,  yet  how  varied, 
are  the  families  of  trees,  and  what  a  different 
landscape  effect  they  produce  when  massed  in 
groves  or  woods  !  Almost  every  valley,  hill, 
and  upland  in  America  presents  an  appearance 
peculiar  to  itself  by  virtue  of  its  timber-growth. 
The  giant  red-woods  of  California,  the  great 
elms  of  the  Mississippi,  the  cotton- woods  of 
the  Missouri,  the  oak -openings  of  Minnesota 


LEAF  AND   BRANCH 


265 


the  Eastern  tangle  of  wild  cherry,  hickory,  and 
beech,  have  little  resemblance  one  to  another. 
And  those  long  aisles  and  open  spaces  in  the 
forest  of  oak  and  chestnut — spaces  where  the 
sunlight  breaks  through  in  splashes,  where  the 
creeper  grows  and  the  cardinal  flower  gleams — 
what  a  contrast  they  are  to  the  dark  depths  of 
the  "pinery,"  where  the  closed-up  ranks  of  the 
trees  shut  out  the  light  of  the  sun,  where  the 
long  moss  hangs  in  festoons  from  the  branches, 
and  only  stray  patches  of  the  lowly  pink  peer 
through  the  carpet  of  pine-needles  ! 

But  deep  forest  and  dark  pinery  are  hardly 
attractive  to  the  average  person.  People  have 
some  fear  of  the  shadow  and  the  solitude,  and 
quickly  wish  themselves  back  in  the  sunshine 
with  friends.  They  prefer  the  more  open 
groves,  where  the  light  breaks  in  nickering 
bars  across  the  wood-road,  where  the  field  of 
golden-rod  is  in  sight,  and  the  blue  sky  is  not 
shut  out.  Certainly  the  open  woods  are  the 
most  enjoyable,  the  most  livable  spots ;  yet 
those  great  interlaced  forests  where  light  filters 
through  only  in  arrowy  shafts,  where  the  bear 
and  the  wolf  slink  like  spectres  and  the  deer 
breaks  suddenly  from  his  bed — those  labyrinths 
through  which  stretches  no  Daedalian  thread 


The  depth* 
of  the 
forett 


256 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


— how  sublime  they  are  in  their  power  and 
volume !  To  the  uninitiated  and  the  timid 
they  may  have  terrors,  but  to  the  hunter 
and  the  backwoodsman  the  "big  timber  "  is  an 
earthly  paradise.  There  nature  is  supreme 
and  man  is  only  a  cipher  ;  there  heat,  light, 
and  moisture  work  their  pleasure  undisturbed. 
Within  the  pale  of  civilization,  upon  meadow, 
field,  and  hill-side,  one  can  never  feel  that  nat- 
ure has  done  justice  to  itself  or  its  growths. 
The  woods  upon  our  Eastern  hills  have  all  been 
raised  upon  the  bottle.  "Where  the  Great 
Mother  is  unthwarted  in  her  ways,  she  rears  a 
brood  of  giants. 

The  botanist  has  classed,  ordered,  sectioned, 
and  specied  the  different  trees,  and  christened 
each  with  a  Latinized  name;  but  I  have  no 
thought  of  following  his  scientific  arrangement 
nor  of  cataloguing  or  classifying  the  different 
varieties  of  trees.  My  task  has  to  do  with 
surface  appearances.  Moreover,  the  general 
character  of  a  tree  is  revealed  by  its  form, 
color,  or  texture ;  and  it  may  be  assumed  that 
the  average  person  recognizes  it  by  these  feat- 
ures rather  than  by  reducing  it  to  botanical 
class  and  species.  How  much  depends  upon 
outline,  hue,  and  surface,  and  what  distin- 


LEAF   AND   BRANCH 


257 


guishing  ear-marks  these  are,  may  be  suggested 
by  a  few  haphazard  descriptions  of  the  common 
trees  about  us. 

The  spruca,  for  instance,  is  a  straight- 
trunked  tree  that  throws  out  branches  that 
ride  upward  like  crescents,  and  bear  needles 
that  hang  downward  like  fringes.  Its  outline, 
when  seer  in  silhouette  against  the  sky,  is 
pyramidal  ;  its  color  is  dark  green,  often 
blne-gre'<!n  when  seen  from  a  distance,  and  at 
twilight  it  is  cold-purple.  The  pine  is  like  it, 
bul-  its  branches  are  not  so  crescent-shaped, 
ar/d  the  needles  push  outward  in  clusters  rather 
than  droop  downward  in  fringes.  It  is  of  a 
darker  color  than  the  spruce,  and  at  night  or 
under  shadow  it  is  bluer.  The  poplar  is  a  tall 
tree,  and  often  a  straight  one,  but  the  branches 
do  not  swing  outward  like  the  pine.  They 
seek  rather  to  grow  straight  beside  the  parent 
stem,  and  the  twigs  and  the  sharp-pointed 
foliage  surround  the  branches  as  a  loose  sleeve 
the  arm  of  a  woman.  It  is  white-trunked,  with 
a  leaf  that  is  bright  green  on  one  side  and  sil- 
very green  on  the  other  side.  The  black  oak 
grows  a  straight  trunk  with  limbs  that  shoot 
out  almost  at  right  angles ;  but  the  white  oak 
and  the  pin  oak  are  crooked  and  twisted,  their 


258 


NATURE  FOR  ITS   OWN  SAKE 


harsh  trunks  are  often  broken  with  boles,  and 
their  limbs  may  take  angle  lines  or  prong  out 
like  the  horns  of  a  deer.  Very  different  from 
such  an  angular  growth  as  the  oak  is  the  stately 
elm,  its  long  limbs  branching  and  falling  so 
gracefully,  the  weeping  willow  that  throws  its 
branches  up  and  over  like  the  spray  from  a 
fountain,  the  round,  ball-shaped  horse-chest- 
nut, or  the  long-armed,  white-breasted  birch  of 
the  mountains. 

The  locust,  the  sycamore,  the  tulip,  the  lin- 
den, the  nut-trees  and  the  fruit-trees  are  just 
as  individual  and  peculiar  in  their  forms.  The 
most  commonplace  hill-side  will  show  innumer- 
able classes,  families,  and  groups  of  trees  ;  and 
to  the  romanticist  many  of  these  growths  con- 
vey significant  meanings  by  their  forms  or  move- 
ments. It  is  doubtless  an  application  of  the 
pathetic  fallacy  to  think  of  the  willow  as  "  sad," 
and  yet  the  droop  of  its  branches,  the  wave  of 
its  leaves,  lead  the  poets  to  make  such  a  state- 
ment. In  the  same  associative  way,  the  pine  on 
the  mountain-top  is  "  solemn  "  or  "  lonely,"  the 
yew  and  the  cypress  are  "mourners  o'er  the 
dead,"  the  oak  is  the  "  monarch  of  the  lorest." 
Their  look  and  bearing  suggest  such  descrip- 
tions; and  it  is  not  strange  that  man  should 


LEAF  AND   BRANCH 


259 


sometimes  assign  to  them  attributes  peculiar  to 
humanity.  A  century-old  oak  has  about  it 
something  more  than  sturdiness  and  bulk,  it 
seems  to  have  dignity,  nobility,  and  forti- 
tude. How  proudly  it  stands  against  the  ele- 
ments, and  how  nobly  it  was  designed  to  stand  ! 
Its  roots  are  driven  deep  into  the  rock  ledges  ; 
its  massive  trunk  and  branches  are  constructed 
to  endure  all  weather.  It  has  sensation,  and  it 
seems  almost  human  as  it  stands  there  year 
after  year,  changing  its  garmenting  with  the 
seasons,  sighing  as  the  wind  passes  through 
its  branches.  And  how  serenely  it  lives  and 
dies  !  The  growths  of  nature  are  in  no  way 
hurried.  Time  is  a  human  check-system  of 
which  the  bud,  the  leaf,  and  the  branch  know 
nothing.  They  grow  to  maturity,  and  pass 
on  into  old  age  and  decay  with  patience.  The 
oak  has  its  portion  of  earth-glory,  something 
of  beauty  in  light  and  color,  something  of 
usefulness  as  shadow  and  screen.  These  it 
receives,  reflects,  reveals  ;  and  having  fulfilled 
its  destined  end,  it  sinks  back  to  the  earth 
whence  it  sprung,  never  questioning  the  reason 
of  life  or  the  wisdom  of  death.  Such  personi- 
fication is  no  doubt  mere  pathos  and  fallacy ; 
and  yet,  for  all  that,  there  seems  to  be  a  nobility 


260 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


about  the  oak.     At  least  such  is  the  romanti- 
cist's point  of  view. 

The  only  power  of  motion  possessed  by  a  tree 
lies  in  its  growth  upward,  downward,  and  out- 
ward. It  is  capable  of  being  moved,  however, 
and  the  great  mover  is  the  wind.  The  slender 
trees  like  the  birch,  the  willow,  the  elm,  and  the 
maple,  are  swung  and  tossed  in  their  branches 
as  well  as  in  the  upper  parts  of  the  trunk  ; 
whereas  the  sturdier  growths,  like  the  oak  and 
the  chestnut,  are  moved  only  in  their  leaves  or 
smaller  stems.  In  a  heavy  gale  the  large 
trees  often  rock  when  they  will  not  bend. 
The  pines,  the  spruces,  the  hemlocks — all  the 
conifers — are  great  rockers.  And  they  are  also 
great  whisperers,  great  musicians.  The  slightest 
wind  will  start  the  white  pine  sounding  its 
^lolian  harp  of  needles,  and  in  a  gale  the  whole 
tree  will  sometimes  hum  like  the  wires  strung 
on  telegraph  poles  or  the  wind-swept  cordage 
of  a  ship's  rigging.  The  elm  is  one  of  the 
most  graceful  of  the  bending  trees,  and  in  fresh 
winds  its  branches  will  roll  on  for  hours,  an 
epitome  of  poetic  motion.  The  birch  is  still 
more  easily  bent,  and  the  very  word  "  willowy  " 
indicates  the  elasticity  of  our  common  meadow- 
tree.  The  poplar,  though  often  a  tall  tree, 


LEAF  AND   BRANCH 


261 


is  somewhat  stiff  in  its  branches,  but  it  hardly 
knows  such  a  thing  as  rest  in  its  leaves.  The 
slightest  breeze  starts  them  trembling.  The 
Normandy  poplars  are  forever  fluttering  and 
twittering,  even  in  calm  weather.  The  gent- 
lest breath  of  wind  will  turn  up  the  silver 
of  their  foliage,  and  a  row  of  them  along 
a  road  will  glitter  and  flash  light  at  times  like 
the  glass  pendants  of  a  chandelier.  Strange 
flashings  of  light  and  color  are  also  shown  at 
times  by  the  beech,  particularly  the  copper- 
beech,  and  it,  too,  sways  easily  ;  but  not  so  the 
large-leafed  trees  like  the  walnut  and  the  oak. 
They  make  much  noise,  but  move  less  in  their 
branches  than  the  thin,  narrow-leafed  growths. 
The  leafy  trees  in  groves  or  forests,  when 
agitated  by  winds,  have  a  sound  like  that  of  a 
distant  waterfall  or  fast-driven  rain,  and  any- 
one who  has  stood  on  a  mountain-top  and  heard 
a  storm  coming  down  the  valley  knows  wherein 
"the  roar  of  the  storm "  consists.  It  is  the 
roar  of  foliage  struck  by  wind  and  rain.  All 
the  sounds  from  trees  seem  to  be  more  subdued 
at  night  than  at  any  other  time.  The  night 
winds  that  stir  the  leaves  and  set  the  whole 
wood  whispering,  are  gentle  breezes,  and  possi- 
bly because  of  their  gentleness  they  are  great 


262 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


creators  of  sentiment.  The  sound  is  not  only 
restful,  but  under  moonlight  when  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  wood  seem  doubly  mysterious, 
it  is  suggestive  of  music,  poetry,  memories, 
love,  life,  death — all  things  of  passion  and  of 
beauty  tinged  with  sadness. 

It  is  a  great  change  from  the  summer  breeze 
and  the  barred  moonlight  on  the  wood-path 
to  the  windy  days  of  March,  when  the  bare 
branches  moan  under  storm-skies  and  the  sere 
leaves  of  the  oak  grate  dryly  on  their  brittle 
stems.  It  is  not  the  season  of  poetic  sounds, 
but  it  is  the  best  time  of  all  the  year  to  study 
the  trunks,  boughs,  and  branches  of  the  trees. 
Indeed,  the  windy  March  has  always  been 
reviled  in  the  name  of  the  leafy  June ;  and  yet 
it  is  a  most  interesting  month,  full  of  promise, 
full  of  graceful  lines,  full  of  silver-gray  beauty. 
The  trees  stand  stripped  and  bare,  the  trunks 
are  blackened  and  weather-stained  by  winter 
rains,  the  twigs  have  not  yet  begun  to  redden 
under  the  ascending  sap ;  but  how  beautifully 
the  branches  ramify  and  spread ;  how  tenderly 
the  little  stems  bunch  up  together  or  are  etched 
in  dark  lines  against  the  sky  !  What  contours, 
what  delicate  light-and-shade,  what  infinite 
grace  of  line  these  bare  branches  show  us  ! 


LEAF  AND   BRANCH 


263 


And  in  March  how  strong  the  bare  forest 
breaks  across  the  horizon,  how  clear  and  sharp 
the  dark  ranks  along  the  hill-top  cut  the  sky  ! 
The  iron-like  trunks  show  a  variety  of  darks, 
though  to  the  casual  observer  they  are  all  of 
one  tone ;  the  twigs  that  bunch  together  broom- 
like  along  the  top  seem  like  a  bordering  fringe ; 
and  the  dull-green  mass  of  the  cedar, 

"  That  keeps  his  leaves  in  spite  of  any  storm," 

is  merely  a  color-spot  in  the  line.  And  how  all 
this  outlining  of  the  woods  in  detail  and  in 
mass  fits  in  and  holds  its  place  in  the  envelope 
of  the  landscape  !  Nature  is  stripped  of  its  gay 
garments.  It  is  showing  more  of  structure 
than  of  color.  The  lines  of  shore  and  hill  and 
mountain,  of  tree  and  field  and  rock,  are  every- 
where apparent.  A  cold  light  cements  them 
all,  and  it  is  the  ensemble — the  unity  of  many 
in  one — that  makes  such  individual  parts  as 
the  bare  boughs  and  branches  appropriate  and 
beautiful.  We  may  prefer  certain  months, 
lights,  skies,  hues ;  but  the  cold  sky  and  light 
of  March  belong  with  the  leafless  earth  and 
harmonize  with  it  just  as  completely  as  the  red 
foliage  of  September  with  the  yellow-flushed 
sky  of  Indian  summer. 


264 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


In  a  few  weeks  there  is  a  very  noticeable 
change  in  the  whilom  March  woodlands.  The 
young  trees  begin  to  show  dull  red  in  their 
smaller  twigs.  A  reddish  hue  spreads  all  along 
the  bordering  fringe  at  the  top.  It  is  the  first 
positive  color-note  of  spring,  though  in  the 
small  trees  and  bushes  it  is  seen  all  winter  long. 
As  the  warm  sun  starts  the  sap  the  color  begins 
to  brighten.  The  swamp  trees  with  their  roots 
in  the  water  show  it  first  of  all,  and  then 
others  join  in  until  at  last  there  is  a  distinct 
hue  of  dull  red  running  through  all  the  woods. 
The  buds  swell  and  begin  to  open  just  a 
little,  a  fuzziness  muffles  the  sharp  outlines  of 
the  branches,  and  the  next  color-note  is  a  mist  of 
pale  yellow,  mingled  with  the  pinks,  grays,  and 
whites  of  the  buds  and  the  reds  and  yellows  of 
the  stems.  A  few  weeks  more  and  the  leaves 
are  out  enough  to  thicken  the  view,  obscure  the 
tree  lines,  and  cast  a  yellow-green  hue  over 
the  forest.  The  grass  has  at  this  time  grown 
long  on  the  meadows  and  is  deep  green  in  color, 
but  the  foliage  of  the  trees  comes  later.  The 
chlorophyll  in  the  leaf-cells  is  not  strong 
enough  yet  to  show  the  dark  green  of  mid- 
summer. The  young  leaves  are  all  tender  in 
hue,  shiny,  coated  with  a  varnish  at  times ;  and 


LEAF   AND   BRANCH 


265 


many  are  the  transitions  through  which  they 
pass  before  they  gain  their  summer  coats.  The 
maples  and  the  willows  are  the  earliest  ones 
to  leaf  out,  and  the  oaks  about  the  last  ones. 
When  the  first  leaves  of  the  white  oak  shine 
against  the  blue  sky  like  blossoms,  almost  all 
of  the  other  trees  are  far  out  in  foliage,  and 
yet  the  buds  of  the  black  oak  and  the  hickory 
are  just  beginning  to  break. 

Early  in  July  the  leaves  have  reached  matur- 
ity in  size  and  color.  After  that  they  change 
little  for  two  months,  except  that  some  of  them 
grow  more  shiny  and  others  again  appear  to  dim 
their  lustre.  The  character  of  the  tree  as  por- 
trayed in  texture  and  color  is  now  well  devel- 
oped, and  the  delicate  honey-locust,  the  leath- 
ery-leaved hickory,  the  drooping  willow,  the 
shaking  aspen,  and  the  copper-beech  are  all  in 
their  prime,  contrasting  with  and  relieving  one 
another  in  the  landscape. 

The  massed  foliage  when  seen  on  cloudy 
days  during  the  summer  months  is  dense,  dark, 
and  bluish ;  on  clear  days  it  is  bright  green, 
and  under  strong  sunlight,  often  fire-green. 
The  predominant  note  everywhere  is  green,  but 
it  has  its  thousand  varieties  in  tints  and  shades, 
and  each  one  of  these  has  a  gamut  of  its  own, 


266 


NATURE  FOR   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


which  it  runs  over  daily  with  the  shifting  of 
the  sun.  Light  transforms  all  things,  and  we 
have  already  seen  what  changes  it  may  produce 
upon  the  foliage  of  a  mountain-top.  The 
leaves  are  heightened,  deepened,  bleached,  or 
distorted,  according  to  their  texture  or  light- 
reflecting  capacity.  Often  the  green  of  a  tree- 
top  is  turned  to  cold  gray  under  a  noonday 
sun,  and  at  sunset,  when  the  trunks  of  the 
trees  are  in  shadow  and  their  tops  in  full  sun- 
light, everyone  knows  what  a  sharp  contrast 
appears.  The  top  is  yellow,  the  body  dark 
green.  If  the  tree  has  a  glossy  leaf,  the  whole 
top  may  be  a  mass  of  reflected  light.  The 
tall  tulip,  the  sycamore,  or  the  chestnut  at 
evening,  with  its  loftiest  leaves  apparently 
changed  into  small  shields  of  flashing  light,  is 
not  an  uncommon  spectacle. 

I  fear  that  many  of  us  have  small  conception 
of  the  changes  that  may  take  place  in  a  green 
leaf  in  the  course  of  a  single  day.  It  is  green 
in  our  hand,  and  we  naturally  think  it  must  be 
green  on  the  tree  ;  and  so  the  easy  conclusion  is 
reached  that  leaves  in  summer  are  green  and 
never  anything  else.  But  they  are  seldom  the 
same  green  for  any  length  of  time.  I  once  tried 
to  keep  a  record  from  day  to  day  of  the  color- 


LEAF  AND   BRANCH 


26? 


changes  in  a  few  lawn  trees,  but  the  attempt  had 
to  be  abandoned.  The  shif  tings  of  color  were  so 
frequent,  owing  to  the  changes  of  light,  that 
the  notes  were  apparently  conflicting  and 
led  to  no  resnlt  but  contradiction.  Even  with 
the  so-called  "flower-bearing  trees"  like  the 
tulip,  the  locust,  and  the  orchard  fruit-trees, 
the  color-transitions  from  hour  to  hour  are 
swift.  Beautiful,  indeed,  are  the  white  blos- 
soms of  the  cherry,  the  pink-and-white  of  the 
apple,  the  darker  pink  of  the  peach.  Seen  in 
the  early  part  of  May,  before  the  foliage  has 
opened,  they  make  charming  masses  of  color 
along  the  hill-side  of  the  farm  and  against  the 
woods.  They  are  tokens  of  the  winter  passed 
and  the  spring  arrived,  and  while  they  are  sway- 
ing cloud-like  in  the  orchard,  the  castellated 
cumulus  is  piling  higher  and  higher  in  the 
glowing  sky.  Fair  things  of  spring,  beautiful 
they  are  while  they  remain  with  us,  but  how 
quickly  they  pass  !  The  blossom  of  to-day  is 
not  the  blossom  of  yesterday.  Its  color  and 
light  are  different.  And  then  some  night  the 
wind  rises,  a  "  blossom  storm "  comes  on,  and 
in  the  morning  the  light  and  color  lie  broken  on 
the  ploughed  ground  and  the  dark  boughs  look 
more  desolate  than  ever. 


NATURE  FOR  ITS  OWN   SAKE 


And  what  of  the  autumn  glory  of  the  trees  ! 
What  of  the  changes  here  that  mark  the  ebbing 
season,  beginning  with  the  first  maple-leaf  that 
turns  yellow  in  September  and  ending  only  with 
the  dark,  wine-red  leaf  of  the  oak  left  fluttering 
alone  against  the  blue  sky  of  December  !  Out 
of  the  green  of  summer,  into  the  yellow,  the 
pink,  and  the  red  of  autumn,  the  great  pro- 
cession moves.  The  chlorophyll  has  exhausted 
its  power  in  the  leaf -cells,  the  green  is  bleached, 
the  yellow  must  follow,  and  finally  the  russet 
of  decay.  The  transitions  are  even  but  rapid. 
The  different  stages  come  and  go,  the  hues 
passing  from  one  into  the  other  so  softly,  so 
easily,  that  before  we  know  it  the  whole  face 
of  nature  is  changed  and  the  panorama  of  the 
scarlet  fall  is  before  us.  How  swiftly  the  days 
fly,  and  when  there  comes  that  lull  called 
Indian  summer,  how  we  wish  it  would  last  for- 
ever !  But  the  great  globe  spins  like  a  potter's 
wheel,  and  the  coloring  that  this  week  stains  the 
valley  of  the  Hudson  with  carmines  and  saff- 
rons, will  next  week  be  shifted  southward  to 
the  shores  of  the  Delaware.  The  splendor 
moves  with  the  sun,  northward  in  the  spring, 
southward  in  the  autumn.  A  fortnight  or  more 
and  the  gorgeous  leaves  of  the  hills,  torn  by  the 


LEAF  AND   BRANCH 


storms,  will  be  flying  with  the  winds,  heaping 
in  fence-corners  and  about  bushes  for  the  long, 
long-sleep  of  decay ;  but  while  the  flame-like 
mantle  lasts  how  supremely  glorious  its  color- 
ing! 

The  distribution  and  arrangement  of  these 
autumn  colors,  from  some  points  of  view,  may 
not  always  result  in  the  most  perfect  color-har- 
mony. Indeed,  the  "  loudness  "  of  the  Hudson 
Kiver  scenery  in  September  has  been  the  com- 
ment of  more  than  one  traveller  in  the  United 
States ;  but  this,  I  fancy,  comes  from  consider- 
ing the  cubes  of  the  mosaic  separately  instead 
of  regarding  the  picture  as  a  whole.  Looked 
at  in  the  part,  the  cold  green  of  the  pine  may 
jangle  with  the  scarlet  of  the  maple,  the  blue 
of  the  sky  may  be  out  of  key  with  the  flaming 
sumacs  along  a  bare  hill-ridge  ;  and  in  that  way 
the  autumn  covering  may  be  analyzed  into 
something  like  a  discord.  But  nature  does  not 
scatter  its  parts  and  leave  them  in  any  such 
helpless  loneliness.  There  is  just  as  much  har- 
mony in  this  pageant  costume  of  the  autumn 
as  in  the  sombre  grays  and  browns  of  the 
spring.  For  the  same  binding  qualities  of 
light  and  air  are  present.  The  autumn  haze 
and  the  mellow  glow  from  the  sun  cement  all 


270 


NATURE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


the  parts  together,  blending  them,  toning  them, 
binding  them  into  a  universal  whole.  Unity  is, 
indeed,  the  key-note  of  all  landscape  ;  and  it  is 
the  sweeping  mass  of  this  foliage,  carpeting  the 
hills  and  running  over  the  meadows  down  to 
the  scarlet  reflection  at  the  water's  edge,  that 
reveals  and  emphasizes  the  large  harmony  of 
the  design. 

It  is  the  mass  and  body  of  trees,  too,  that 
blend  into  unison  the  odd  groupings  wherein 
form,  color,  and  texture  are  often  recklessly 
sacrificed.  Nature  can  and  does  throw  away 
many  effects  that  humanity  would  eagerly 
grasp.  It  rolls  a  whole  mountain-side  into  one 
tone  of  green  or  yellow  with  scarcely  a  break, 
it  ranks  together  acres  of  dark  pines  without  a 
perceptible  spot  of  white  or  yellow,  it  rears 
whole  groves  of  white-trunked  birches  without 
a  dark  tree  among  them  for  relief  or  contrast. 
The  landscape-gardener  advises  his  client  not  to 
hang  a  weeping  willow  over  a  pool  of  water,  but 
nature  does  it  with  impunity  ;  the  landscape- 
gardener  advises  contrasts  of  colors — yellow  or 
light  green  against  bottle-green ;  contrasts  of 
texture — the  fluffy  leaf  against  the  needle-point ; 
contrasts  of  form — the  short,  stout  tree  against 
the  tall,  thin  one;  bnt  nature  seems  to  have 


LEAF  AND  BRANCH 


271 


paid  small  attention  to  these  canons  of  taste. 
It  puts  its  growths  together  at  random  quite 
regardless  of  the  part,  but  it  is  not  so  careless 
about  the  total  result.  The  mass  is  always  har- 
monious in  its  breadth. 

The  great  volume  of  foliage  undoubtedly  has 
much  to  do  with  making  the  landscape  in 
America  harmonious,  in  spite  of  abrupt  con- 
trasts and  vivid  hues.  The  country  is  really 
exceptional  in  the  extent  of  its  timber-growths  ; 
and  as  for  the  rainbow  foliage  of  September, 
one  never  sees  elsewhere  such  a  display.  The 
vegetation  of  the  tropics,  which  we  vainly  im- 
agine corresponds  to  the  brilliant  plumage  of 
a  parrot  or  a  bird  of  paradise,  is  on  the  con- 
trary a  mass  of  dark  summer-green  the  year 
round  ;  and  many  of  the  lands  in  the  tem- 
perate zone  show  no  great  forest-color  in  the 
autumn.  The  foliage  of  the  Northern  United 
States  and  Canada  has  about  it  an  incom- 
parable richness,  a  vibrant  sparkling  quality 
which  one  cannot  but  think  peculiar  to  the  coun- 
try itself.  The  traveller  returning  from  Europe 
can  feel  a  difference  in  the  air  and  light  as  soon 
as  he  enters  New  York  Harbor,  and  it  is  per- 
haps the  air  and  the  light  that  make  possible 
the  intense  hues  of  foliage. 


272 


NATURE   FOK  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


European 


There  are  beautiful  trees  and  groves  in  Eng- 
land, France,  and  Italy,  and  there  are  Black 
Forests,  Bohemian  Forests,  and  Harz  Mountain 
woodlands  in  Germany,  but  the  European 
woods  are  no  improvement  upon  those  of  the 
Western  continent.  They  are  not  so  varied  in 
form  and  color,  nor  have  they  the  same  fresh- 
ness and  wildness.  In  the  Old- World  forests  it 
always  seems  borne  in  upon  one  that  nature  is 
playing  the  drudge  to  civilization,  and  that  every 
large  tree  exists  only  to  cast  a  protecting  shadow 
over  some  house,  park,  or  roadway.  Happily, 
in  this  Western  world,  the  flavor  of  the  wilder- 
ness has  not  entirely  departed.  Along  many  a 
plain  and  valley  nature  rears  its  growths  undis- 
turbed, and  upon  many  a  mountain-side  ' '  the 
trees  of  the  Lord  "  have  not  yet  wholly  become 
the  trees  of  man. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EARTH   COVERINGS 

THE  scientific  distinction  between  a  bush  and 
a  tree  is  simple,  but  somewhat  arbitrary.  It 
indicates  a  tree  by  its  having  a  single  stem 
or  trunk,  while  the  bush  is  peculiar  in  having 
several  stems  springing  up  from  one  root.  But 
there  is  really  no  sharp  division-line  between 
the  shrub  and  the  larger  growth.  The  one 
merges  into  the  other.  Eegarded  from  a  pict- 
uresque rather  than  a  scientific  point  of  view, 
there  is  a  distinction  just  as  arbitrary,  which 
may  be  made  after  this  fashion  :  The  tree  grows 
separately  even  in  a  forest,  and  its  foliage  be- 
gins so  high  up  the  trunk  that  the  earth  beneath 
it  is  usually  exposed  to  view ;  the  bush  often 
grows  in  dense  clumps  over  acres  of  ground, 
with  foliage  so  close  and  so  low  that  the  earth 
is  hidden  from  view.  Perhaps  then  I  may  be 
allowed  to  treat  of  bushes  under  the  general 
heading  of  "  Earth  Coverings/'  putting  them  in 
the  same  class  with  reeds  and  grasses. 
273 


Tree*  and. 

shrubs. 


Bush- 

growth* 


274 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


The  bushes  make  no  such  show  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  as  the  trees,  though  perhaps  they 
cover  more  territory  ;  and,  moreover,  they  are 
frequently  a  secondary  rather  than  a  primary 
growth — a  substitute  rather  than  an  original. 
Nature  is  fertile  in  resources,  and  wherever  the 
earth  is  scarred  by  fire,  tempest,  or  the  axe,  an 
effort  is  put  forth  to  cover  the  spot  with  a  new 
growth.  Many  of  the  shrubs  and  bushes  and 
small-bunched  thickets  of  the  woods  and  hills 
are  the  result.  In  the  coal  regions  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, where  the  timber  has  been  destroyed  and 
many  of  the  valleys  have  been  turned  into  mere 
sluices  and  drainways  for  the  black  waters  of 
coal  mines,  the  laurel  and  the  rhododendron 
grow  in  great  profusion,  covering  valley,  hill, 
and  mountain  for  miles  at  a  stretch.  In  the 
early  summer,  when  they  are  in  bloom,  they  are 
really  splendid  in  effect.  All  the  mountain 
seems  in  blossom,  and  along  the  ridges  the  color 
is  banked  up  against  the  blue  sky  in  pink  and 
red  clouds.  In  Southern  California  nature  was 
probably  never  prodigal  in  the  planting  of  forest- 
trees  ;  but  the  neglect  is  atoned  for  by  almost 
endless  varieties  of  small  bushes  and  trees  that 
robe  the  mountains  and  the  foothills  in  a  man  tie 
of  many  colors  at  all  seasons  of  the  year.  Be- 


EARTH   COVERINGS 


275 


sides  the  evergreens  there  are  the  sumac,  the 
white  and  lavender  lilacs,  the  madrofia,  the 
manzanita,  the  wild  mahogany,  the  choke- 
cherry,  all  rolled  together  along  the  hill-sides  in 
great  velvet  waves  fifteen  feet  or  more  in  height. 
This  is  the  chaparral — the  dense  thicket  where 
the  grizzly  makes  his  home  and  breaks  a  path, 
where  the  mule-deer  skulks  at  noonday,  but 
where  neither  horse  nor  man  finds  easy  thor- 
oughfare. Desolate  enough  might  be  the  hill- 
sides of  California,  were  it  not  for  this  thick 
carpeting  of  bush  and  stunted  tree.  And  were 
it  not  for  the  grease-wood,  the  sage-brush,  and 
the  spiny  cactus,  how  very  bare  and  dreary 
would  be  the  alkaline  plains  !  These  growths 
of  the  arid  lands  are  far  from  being  joyous, 
but  they  are  singularly  appropriate  to  the  land- 
scape where  they  are  seen.  No  other  bushes, 
save  these  hardy  shrubs,  would  live  there,  and 
nature  does  the  best  it  can  with  every  surface 
given  it  to  care  for. 

The  clothing  of  the  hills  that  lie  along  the 
Atlantic  coast  is  something  quite  different  from 
that  of  the  Pacific  slope  or  the  plains.  There 
is  neither  the  density  of  the  chaparral  nor  the 
meagreness  of  the  sage-brush.  The  growth 
is  more  uniform.  Oftentimes  the  laurel,  the 


276 


NATURE   FOB   ITS   OWN  SAKE 


magnolia,  the  thorn,  the  dogwood,  the  hazel, 
tangled  with  sweet-brier,  grape,  and  clumps 
of  berry-bearing  bushes  may  be  seen  in  one 
landscape.  There  is  no  stint  to  the  variety 
nor  to  the  beauty  of  these  growths,  but  simply 
because  they  spring  up  close  beside  us,  and 
may  be  seen  from  almost  any  country  door- 
yard,  we  are  disposed  to  think  them  too  com- 
mon for  admiration.  Such  a  conclusion  is  of 
almost  universal  acceptance,  but  it  is  not  the 
less  shallow  for  that.  It  is  the  old  error  of 
thinking  happiness  in  Rome  or  Athens  or  Bag- 
dad rather  than  in  our  own  heart  and  home. 
The  unusual  in  nature  is  not  by  any  means  the 
most  enjoyable.  There  is  a  greater  charm  in 
the  commonplace,  the  humble  things  of  the 
earth,  if  we  have  but  the  eyes  to  see  them  and 
the  soul  to  feel  them.  A  clump  of  hazel  on  the 
upland  meadow,  around  which  the  daisies  grow 
and  through  which  the  blackberry  twines  its 
white  blossoms,  may  be  a  wonder- world  of  beauty 
if  we  study  it  in  its  form  and  color,  its  setting, 
light,  and  relation  to  the  whole  meadow.  And 
the  wild  rose — the  common  wild  rose — grow- 
ing along  the  woodland  road,  unseen  by  the  farm- 
er's boy  and  the  summer  tourist,  is  a  vision  of 
loveliness  beyond  all  description.  How  many 


EARTH   COVERINGS 


277 


times  has  it  led  poets  to  prove  the  poverty  of 
language  !  With  the  dew  upon  it  in  the  early 
morning,  it  is  the  fairest,  purest  growth  in 
all  the  floral  world.  As  children  we  knew  it, 
plucked  it,  and  scattered  its  petals  upon  the 
ground ;  but  since  then  we  have  scarcely  seen 
it.  Grown  to  man's  estate,  we  still  walk  along 
that  woodland  road  on  Sunday  afternoons  seek- 
ing a  "  breath  of  fresh  air  ; "  but  we  see  little 
of  anything.  Our  days  of  observation  have 
passed  and  we  have  fallen  upon  days  of  reflec- 
tion. Instead  of  looking  without,  our  eyes  are 
turned  within,  and  we  are  studying  some  human 
problem,  perhaps  some  business  venture,  while 
walking  the  new  Garden  of  the  Hesperides. 

The  bushes  are  the  most  varied  in  form  and 
color  of  all  the  earth  coverings,  and  they  also 
form  the  densest  shield  against  the  sunlight. 
Sometimes,  when  they  are  scattered  in  broken 
clumps,  the  sunlit  open  spaces  between  them 
grow  small  grasses  and  weeds,  but  usually 
the  hill-side  bushes  stand  close  together,  the 
branches  touching  each  other  and  throwing  an 
almost  perpetual  summer  shade  upon  the  ground 
beneath.  Naturally  those  plants  only  that  live 
under  shadow  are  found  growing  there.  The 
moss  clings  to  the  rock,  some  thin  grasses 


278 


NATURE  FOB   ITS   OWN   SAKE 


flourish,  and  occasionally,  in  the  spring  of  the 
year,  one  meets  with  slender-stemmed  wild- 
flowers,  looking  pale  and  delicate  in  their  shad- 
owed homes.  The  hardy  ferns  will  grow  near 
the  bush,  but  the  ground  they  usually  cover  is 
under  the  forest-trees  and  in  the  oak  openings. 
Everywhere,  even  in  the  Adirondack  forests, 
their  growth  is  rank.  Sometimes  they  will 
reach  up  as  high  as  one's  head,  but  they  are 
usually  of  knee-high  growth  and  of  a  yellow- 
green  hue.  They  do  not  usually  grow  well  in 
the  sunlight.  Even  the  bracken  of  the  Scotch 
hills  and  valleys  clusters  under  the  evergreen 
and  the  mountain-ash,  or  hides  its  roots  beneath 
tall  grass.  It  is  a  more  rusty-looking  covering 
than  the  American  varieties  of  fern,  but  is  nev- 
ertheless picturesque. 

The  most  conspicuous  covering  of  Scotland, 
however,  is  the  heather.  It  is  a  coarse,  shaggy 
under-shrub,  growing  close  to  the  soil  and  cov- 
ering the  treeless  hills  and  moors  in  great  fields 
many  miles  in  extent.  It  belongs  with  the 
dark  soil  of  the  peat-beds,  the  crags  of  the 
mountain-peaks,  and  the  low-flying  clouds  of 
Scotland,  and  is  seen  to  advantage  in  the  late 
summer  when  it  is  in  bloom.  The  whole  as- 
pect of  the  country  is  then  changed  by  it.  One 


EARTH   COVERINGS 


hears  it  always  spoken  of  as  ' '  purple  heather, " 
though  in  reality  the  coloring  of  the  blossom  is 
pink.  Seen  at  a  distance,  however,  especially 
at  evening,  it  has  a  purplish  effect  which  per- 
haps justifies  the  popular  description  of  it. 
It  grows  in  vast  rolls,  and  sweeps  along  the 
slopes  about  Dalwhinnie  in  the  Grampians, 
and  nothing  could  be  more  beautiful  than  the 
hills  of  that  region  during  the  first  week  of 
September,  when  they  are  clad  in  their  purplish- 
pink  mantle.  The  absence  of  timber,  the  uni- 
formity of  the  heather-covering,  the  beauty  of 
the  sky  lines,  the  splendor  of  the  light  and  the 
clouds,  all  make  for  a  simple,  yet  broad  and 
noble  landscape — a  country  one  might  well  fight 
for  and,  if  need  be,  die  for. 

Our  own  golden-rod  is  no  such  complete 
earth  covering  as  the  heather,  and  it  is  not 
usually  seen  spread  over  such  vast  reaches  of 
territory,  but  it  nevertheless  plays  an  important 
part  in  the  autumn  landscape.  Oftentimes 
it  covers  many  acres  of  field  and  upland,  and 
in  the  mass  of  its  coloring  it  is  singularly  rich 
and  attractive.  Very  appropriate,  too,  is  this 
coloring  to  the  fall  of  the  year  when  the  skies 
are  warming  and  the  leaves  are  changing.  In 
the  late  summer,  when  it  first  appears,  it  is  a 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


lemon-green,  but  as  the  flower  opens  into 
fuller  bloom  it  changes  to  a  clear,  luminous 
chrome-yellow — a  color  that  holds  as  a  distinct 
hue  for  perhaps  a  greater  distance  than  any 
other  in  nature's  scale.  Later  on  in  the  year, 
the  golden-rod  becomes  faded  and  rusty,  and  is 
then  contrasted  with  quantities  of  blue  asters 
that  grow  up  beside  it  and  around  it  in  the 
fields  and  meadows.  In  America  it  is  in  sort  a 
national  flower,  growing  tall  and  rank  along 
almost  every  hill-side  and  roadway,  and  wher- 
ever growing  lending  mellowness  and  beauty 
to  the  landscape. 

The  bushes,  the  ferns,  the  heather,  and  the 
golden-rod  are  coverings  that  belong  distinctly 
to  the  uplands,  the  side-hills,  and  the  mountain- 
slopes.  The  coverings  that  grow  along  the 
shore  and  upon  the  flat  marshes  and  salt  mead- 
ows are  of  an  entirely  different  family.  Some 
of  them  are  grasses  of  thick,  rank  growth  ; 
others  belong  to  the  sedge  group,  and  are  even 
ranker  in  growth  and  darker  in  coloring  than  the 
grasses.  The  rush  and  the  cat-tail  grow  along 
almost  every  coast  and  river  delta  where  the 
ooze  and  mud  washed  down  by  streams  give 
them  a  footing.  I  have  already  spoken  of 
their  great  expansive  beds  and  their  varied 


EARTH   COVERINGS 


coloring  in  summer  and  winter.  A  little  far- 
ther back  from  the  marsh,  often  quite  close 
to  it,  are  those  dryer  lands  that  grow  tall 
grasses  and  weeds  which  are  sometimes  cut  to 
make  what  is  called  "  salt  meadow  hay."  They 
do  not  make  a  strikingly  beautiful  growth, 
though  they  wave  quite  prettily  in  the  wind,  nor 
is  the  color  of  them  in  any  way  remarkable. 
Still  farther  back  lie  the  pasture-lands  and 
meadows  where  the  ordinary  field-grasses  grow, 
and  these  are,  perhaps,  the  most  common  of  all 
the  earth  coverings. 

There  are  some  thirty-five  hundred  species 
of  the  grass  family,  ranging  from  the  tall  stalk 
of  the  bamboos  to  the  small,  almost  moss-like 
buffalo  grass  of  the  plains.  In  the  picturesque 
landscape  they  all  have  their  place,  not  because 
they  are  different  members  of  a  botanical 
family  and  show  slight  variation  in  form  and 
growth,  but  because  they  are  all  masses  of  fibre 
and  color  that  carpet  the  open  spots  of  the 
globe  and  lend  to  universal  beauty.  Nature 
did  not,  perhaps,  grow  them  so  much  for  pict- 
uresque effect  as  for  use.  They  are  the  pro- 
tectors of  the  soil  from  denudation  by  rains  and 
frost.  Wherever  the  surface  of  the  earth  is 
left  bare,  nature  immediately  starts  the  growth 


282 


NATUKE   FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


of  a  covering,  just  as  it  heals  an  abrasion  of 
skin  on  the  human  hand.  The  Indian  trail, 
the  bridle-path,  even  the  track  of  the  plough,  are 
soon  covered  over  and  hidden  by  the  creeping, 
weaving,  intertwining  grasses.  The  fields  and 
meadows,  where  now  the  herbage  grows  thick 
and  cattle  graze,  were  perhaps  but  a  few  years 
ago  sown  with  wheat  and  have  only  lately  been 
allowed  to  "run  to  grass."  The  roots  soon 
knit  together  and  make  a  sod  that  rain  does  not 
wash  and  the  stamp  of  many  feet  does  not  wear 
away. 

And  here  in  the  meadow  the  grass  grows 
rank,  the  buttercup  spreads  its  yellow  petals, 
the  daisy  and  the  dandelion  flourish,  and  the 
wild  violet  springs  up  in  little  beds.  Very 
commonplace  is  the  ten-acre  pasture,  with  its 
small  knolls,  its  tufts  of  tall  grass,  its  smooth- 
cropped  interspaces,  its  wild-flowers,  and  its 
ivy- wound  fence  of  stone ;  yet  in  this  patched 
irregularity  there  is  a  whole  world  of  loveli- 
ness. The  quaint  lines,  the  warmth  and  glow 
of  color,  and,  above  all,  the  broad  area  of  sun- 
light, affect  one  emotionally.  Take  any  man 
from  the  bustle  of  the  city  and  place  him  there 
and  he  will  instinctively  breathe  deeper,  and 
though  he  may  say  little,  yet  be  sure  he  is 


EARTH   COVERINGS 


283 


making  confession  in  his  secret  soul — confessing 
to  a  feeling  he  cannot  define.  A  little  swale  of 
grass,  a  thistle,  and  a  rock — what  is  there  about 
them  that  cheapens  the  city  street  and  the  tall 
building  ?  Is  it  anything  more  than  that  the 
one  is  natural  and  the  other  is  artificial  ?  We 
put  blocks  of  stone  together  and  try  to  create 
an  impression  of  beauty  such,  perhaps,  as 
nature  produces;  but  the  imitation  falls  far 
below  the  original.  We  rear  spires  and  pinna- 
cles in  the  air,  palaces  in  the  sun ;  but  they  are 
never  so  awe-inspiring  as  the  mountains.  We 
flatten  the  Fields  of  Mars ;  but  they  are  not  so 
impressive  as  the  plains.  We  build  baubles  of 
form  and  color  without  number ;  but  how  petty 
they  seem  by  comparison  with  nature's  handi- 
work !  A  tree,  a  brook,  or  a  hill — yes,  even  a 
flash  of  sunlight  on  a  wayside  flower — is  worth 
them  all.  Honor  to  the  work  of  man ;  honor  to 
those  who  spin  and  carve  and  build ;  honor  to 
the  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome  ;  but  what 
of  the  Hand  that  rounded  the  earth  and  estab- 
lished the  blue  dome  of  the  sky,  what  of  the 
work  of  the  Great  Builder  ! 

And  the  wealth  of  color  nature  lavishes  on 
the  meadow  and  the  pasture  !  With  a  prod- 
igal hand  she  sacrifices  half  a  dozen  hues  to 


284 


NATURE  FOB  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


make  one  brilliant.  The  buttercup  absorbs  and 
practically  annihilates  green,  red,  blue,  orange, 
violet ;  all  these  pass  into  the  petals  and  are 
lost.  Yellow  alone  it  rejects  and  reflects,  just 
as  the  violet  throws  back  violet  and  the  pink 
throws  back  pink.  The  white  petal  of  the 
daisy,  more  imperious  than  the  others,  rejects 
all  the  hues  and  remains  white  or  colorless ; 
and  there  is  a  dark,  bell-shaped  wild-flower  (its 
name  I  have  never  known)  which  absorbs  all 
the  hues  and  remains  nearly  black  or  colorless 
again.  Yet  with  this  enormous  destruction 
of  color  that  goes  on,  year  in  and  year  out  the 
whole  world  round,  nature  never  seems  to  want. 
To-day  each  woven  thread  of  gold,  silver,  scar- 
let, or  purple  in  her  variegated  garment  throws 
off  its  light  as  brilliantly  as  in  pre- Adamite 
days. 

And  how  often  the  garment  changes !  Con- 
sider how  many  new  robes  the  pasture-lot  has 
in  the  course  of  the  year — all  of  them  bright 
and  beautiful !  There  is  the  tender,  yellow- 
green  grass  of  early  spring,  which  soon  changes 
to  dark  green  and  is  dotted  with  golden  dande- 
lions. When  the  dandelions  have  passed,  tbe 
whole  field  turns  yellow  with  buttercups,  and  is 
then  blown  white  with  daisies.  In  September 


EARTH   COVERINGS 


285 


it  is  silvered  with  wild  oats,  yellowed  again 
with  golden-rod  or  turned  blue  with  asters. 
Finally,  all  is  changed  to  russet  and  gray  by 
frost,  and  at  last  buried  under  a  white  sheet  of 
snow.  The  tall  pine  on  the  hill-top  that 
has  but  one  dress  the  whole  year  round — how 
much  less  care  nature  seems  to  have  bestowed 
upon  it  than  upon  the  pasture  with  its  flowers  ! 
Yet  we  admire  the  pine,  and  perhaps  care  little 
for  the  pasture.  We  walk  across  the  latter, 
treading  the  delicate  grasses  under  foot,  whip- 
ping off  the  heads  of  the  daisies  with  our 
walking-stick,  and  thinking,  perhaps,  with 
Peter  Bell  that  the  meanest  flower  that  blows 
is  simply  the  meanest  flower ;  but  nature  knows 
nothing  of  one  creation  meaner  or  nobler  than 
another.  It  builds  each  thing  perfect  after  its 
kind.  Commonplace  pasture  and  Olympian 
grove,  mountain-crag,  dense  forest,  gay  flower, 
and  lowly  earth  coverings  are  all  of  equal  rank 
in  nature's  book  of  gold.  Each  has  its  measure 
of  glory,  each  its  peculiar  beauty. 

The  cultivated  grasses  that  cover  the  earth 
in  spots,  such  as  the  fields  of  timothy  and  red 
clover,  seem  to  have  less  charm  than  the  wild 
growths,  though  no  one  can  deny  their  beauty. 
The  foaming  whiteness  of  the  blossoming  buck- 


Cultivated 
growths. 


286 


NATUKE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


wheat,  the  reddish  hue  of  the  ripened  corn,  the 
waving  greens  of  the  barley,  oats,  and  wheat 
upon  the  hill-sides,  are  mere  patches  of  local 
color,  but  they  add  greatly  to  the  landscape  ; 
and  where  the  bright  yellow  of  ripe  wheat  is  seen 
in  vast  masses,  it  is  very  impressive.  The 
wheat-fields  of  Dakota  and  Minnesota,  where 
once  forty  and  fifty  thousand  acres  of  grain 
stood  in  unbroken  reach  from  horizon  to  hori- 
zon, were  almost  as  sublime  as  the  ocean,  and 
grander  far  in  light  and  color  than  the  tall  grass 
of  the  prairies.  Yet  one  can  never  escape  the 
feeling  that  this  is  nature  under  the  lash — 
nature  more  for  man's  sake  than  for  her  own 
sake.  Her  efforts  are  cramped  to  utility.  The 
product  is  not  what  would  be  grown,  but  what 
must  be  grown.  One  cannot  help  feeling  in  the 
same  way  about  the  cultivated  shrubs  upon  the 
lawn,  and  the  flowers  that  grow  in  the  Persian- 
carpet  beds,  the  ugly  little  road-borders,  and 
the  glass  houses.  Beautiful  they  are,  but  their 
flush  is  hectic  and  they  smell  of  the  perfumery 
shop.  They  are  nature's  frailer  children,  and 
have  not  the  vitality  nor  the  wild,  untamed 
beauty  of  the  flowers  growing  on  the  meadows 
and  the  prairie. 
And  lastly,  the  smallest  and  the  humblest  of 


EARTH   COVERINGS 


287 


the  earth  coverings— the  mosses.  Mountain, 
shore,  plain,  and  meadow,  each  has  its  peculiar 
dress,  and  why  not  those  spots  of  the  dense 
woods  where  the  straggling  sunlight  falls  pale 
and  broken  on  rocks  and  prostrate  tree-trunks  ? 
The  grasses  and  flowers  will  not  grow  there, 
save  in  isolated  spots  ;  the  ground  is  too  damp, 
the  shade  too  dense.  But  these  are  the  con- 
ditions of  existence  for  those  velvety  growths 
with  pin-like  awns  called  the  mosses.  Flower- 
less,  scentless,  not  brilliant  in  hue,  and  so  hum- 
ble in  stature  that  we  tread  them  under  foot 
without  seeing  them,  yet  what  a  beautiful  and 
perfect  earth  covering  they  make  !  Perhaps 
because  they  do  not  grow  high  they  grow 
thick,  forming  a  complete  sod  that  rains  and 
running  waters  cannot  readily  wash  away. 
It  is  not  a  coarsely  woven  covering  made  up 
of  many  rough  growths,  but  a  compactly  con- 
structed mass.  In  these  growths,  which  are 
placed  where  few  see  them,  tucked  away  under 
rock  bases,  bunched  about  the  roots  of  the 
great  pines,  or  hidden  under  thick  brush, 
it  might  be  thought  that  nature  would  spare 
effort  in  perfecting  the  forms  with  nicety. 
But,  no ;  every  hair-root,  every  spore,  every 
stem  is  wrought  with  a  skill  and  a  beauty 


268 


NATURE  FOE   ITS   OWN    SAKE 


that  would  fit  it  to  cover  a  royal  throne.  And 
the  coloring  of  the  mosses  is  not  less  wonder- 
ful. Chlorophyll  is  in  their  minute  cells,  as  in 
those  of  the  grasses  and  the  leaves.  The  hue 
is  green — evergreen  in  most  of  the  wood-mosses 
— but  what  a  variety  in  the  color  !  You  can 
hardly  bring  two  pieces  of  moss  together  and 
find  them  of  the  same  hue,  because  the  con- 
ditions of  light  and  moisture  under  which 
they  grew  were  not  the  same.  But  none  of 
the  greens  is  harsh  or  discordant  to  the  eye ; 
from  olive  to  green-gold  all  are  harmonious, 
and  all  luxuriant  in  their  depth  of  hue.  Again, 
how  soft  and  grateful  to  the  touch  the  texture 
of  the  mosses  !  The  awns  that  start  up  with  the 
earliest  awakening  of  spring  are  delicacy  itself  ; 
and  in  the  summer,  when  the  tiny  stems  and 
leaves  have  woven  their  carpet  of  velvet,  how 
pleasant  it  feels  under  the  foot.  The  mosses  were 
not  designed  to  be  walked  upon  by  human  feet, 
but,  like  the  field-grasses,  they  are  so  constructed 
that  human  feet  will  not  permanently  injure 
them.  Lying  low  on  the  ground,  rain  and  hail 
fall  upon  them,  snow  covers  them,  frost  binds 
them,  but  from  none  of  these  assaults  comes 
harm.  They  were  designed  for  places  of  ex- 
posure, but  they  were  given  a  hardy,  resistant 


EARTH   COVERINGS 


nature  and  a  compact  surface  to  withstand  the 
elements. 

This  is  perhaps  even  truer  of  the  gray  lichens 
that  cling  to  the  loose  bowlders  on  the  moun- 
tain-side and  color  the  barren  crags  and  exposed 
rocks  of  the  peak.  They  are  the  hardiest,  and 
it  is  thought,  geologically,  among  the  earliest, 
of  all  plants,  making  a  bed  for  the  flora  of  the 
world  by  gathering  about  themselves  grit  and 
mould  from  the  rock.  Sun,  wind,  rain  beat 
full  upon  them,  but  tenaciously  they  hold  upon 
the  stone,  never  moving,  scarcely  ever  changing 
color.  Sometimes  called  parasitic  plants,  they 
are  really  the  protective  coverings  of  the  stone, 
as  the  mosses  and  the  grasses  are  the  coverings 
of  the  earth.  The  long-stemmed  sea- weeds  that 
cling  about  the  coast  bowlders — the  algce  that 
ward  off  the  thrust  of  waves  and  the  grind  of 
surges — are  the  ocean  cousins  of  these  moun- 
tain lichens.  We  know  how  the  algce  cover  and 
color  the  coast  rocks,  but  we  have,  perhaps,  less 
knowledge  of  the  color-changes  wrought  on  the 
mountain's  peak  by  the  lichens.  The  staining 
and  what  is  called  the  "  weather-beaten  "  look 
of  rocks  are  largely  their  doing.  The  clean- 
faced  bowlder  dug  from  the  soil  and  the  light- 
ning-broken surface  on  the  mountain  wall  are 


NATURE   FOR  ITS   OWN   SAKE 


no  sooner  exposed  to  the  light,  the  air,  and  the 
rain  than  they  begin  to  darken  and  deepen  in 
hue  under  the  pencilling  of  the  lichens.  Even 
where  the  plant  form  is  not  recognizable,  there 
is  a  grayish  or  greenish  spot  that  tells  of  its 
coming.  It  may  come  slowly,  for  these  hardy 
growths  are  never  in  a  hurry  to  gain  maturity. 
They  know  not  time,  yet  they  are  never  idle. 
Suns  come  and  go  and  count  out  human  years, 
but  always  with  the  lichens  new  spores  are  form- 
ing, new  threads  are  creeping,  new  hues  are 
gathering  on  stone  and  cliff  and  peak. 

It  seems  a  menial  office — a  humble  part  at 
best  to  play  in  this  beautiful  world — to  pro- 
tect and  stain  the  rocks  so  that  they  shall 
withstand  the  elements  and  harmonize  with  the 
green  of  the  trees  and  the  blue  of  the  sky ;  but 
how  patiently  the  task  is  wrought,  how  faith- 
fully the  part  is  played  !  Green  moss  and  gray 
lichen  !  The  least  pretentious  of  nature's  crea- 
tions they  are,  and  yet  how  inevitably  they 
again  force  a  contrast  with  the  handiwork  of 
man  !  No  human  skill  could  weave  such  car- 
pets ;  no  dyes  could  produce  such  colors ;  no 
machines  could  stamp  such  patterns  !  The 
fabric  is  perfect  of  its  kind. 

Nature  is  above  all !    Unseen  the  loom,  un- 


EARTH   COVERINGS 


291 


seen  the  materials,  unseen  the  hand  of  the 
weaver.  Heat,  light,  and  moisture — what  simple 
ingredients,  but  brought  together  and  working 
in  unison  what  forms  and  colors  they  produce  ! 
what  variety  !  what  endless  combination  !  And 
once  again,  as  compared  to  the  work  of  man, 
how  permanent  seems  the  product !  Men  and 
their  deeds  pass  away,  but  nature  seems  immor- 
tal. The  garden  of  the  world  is  to-day  as  yester- 
day. Counting  by  human  centuries  we  shall 
never  know  its  decline.  The  light  of  the  sun 
shall  not  be  extinguished,  and  under  it  always 
the  glow  of  the  earth,  the  flame  on  the  moun- 
tain-peak, the  foam  on  the  tossing  wave.  The 
blue  sky,  though  it  change  its  light  from  hour 
to  hour,  shall  not  diminish,  and  forever  under 
its  dome  the  drift  of  clouds,  the  fall  of  rain, 
the  flash  of  the  mountain-lake,  and  the  glitter- 
ing thread  of  the  river  winding  downward  to 
the  sea.  Shiftings  of  season  and  shiftings  of 
color  and  foliage — change  following  change;  but 
forever  and  forever  the  arrowy  pine  on  the 
mountain,  the  golden-rod  on  the  upland,  and 
the  flag  by  the  sedgy  shore. 

And  the  great  peace  of  it !  Of  what  avail  the 
struggle  of  races,  the  clashing  of  social  systems, 
the  ascending  cry  of  the  human  !  Serene  above 


292 


NATUKE  FOB  ITS   OWN  SAKE 


The  great 


it  all,  the  Great  Mother  never  hears,  never 
heeds.  The  law  of  the  kingdom — look  to  the 
law.  Kaise  no  hands  of  protest  to  the  throne. 
There  is  no  appeal.  If  you  would  cry  out,  go 
to  the  forest ;  if  you  would  moan,  stand  on 
the  prairie  ;  if  you  would  implore,  look  up  at 
the  sky  and  the  sunlight.  Learn  from  these. 
The  law  is  written  on  them.  Through  all  the 
ages  of  the  earth's  endurance  that  law  has  nof 
failed  to  teach  obedience,  patience,  peace. 


BOOKS  BY  JOHN  C  VAN  DYKE 

Professor  of  the   History  of  Art    in    Rutgers    College 
PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


The  Meaning  of 
Pictures 

With  31  full-page  illustrations,     tamo,  $1.15  tut 

"It  may  be  questioned  if  any  other  book  of  its  scope 
has  ever  shown  'the  meaning  of  pictures'  in  a  way  that 
will  make  it  so  clear  to  the  average  English  reader." 

— The  Dial. 

"  A  book  that  is  always  calm  and  cool  and  right." 
— New  York  Evening  Post. 

"Essentially  sound  and  rational." — Outlook. 

"  We  could  ask  nothing  better  for  the  training  of  art 
taste  in  America  than  the  wide  circulation  and  careful 
reading  of  this  sound  and  sensible  introduction." 

—  The  Congregationalist. 

"  An  unusual  quality  in  art  criticism,  plain  common 
sense  with  a  delightful  avoidance  of  technical  jargon." 

— New  York  Sun. 

"  'The  Meaning  of  Pictures'  has  in  abundant  measure 
a  happy  kind  of  originality,  the  most  genuine  sort  of  help- 
fulness, and  rare  power  to  stimulate." — Boston  Herald. 


BY  PROFESSOR  JOHN  C.  VAN   DYKE 


Art  for  Art's  Sake 

Seven  University  Lectures  on  the 
Technical  Beauties  of  Painting 

With  24  reproductions  of  representative 
paintings,     lamo,    $1.50 

«« One  of  the  best  books  on  art  that  has  ever  been 
published  in  this  country." — Boston  Transcript. 

"We  consider  it  the  best  treatise  on  the  technic  of 
painting  for  general  readers." — The  Nation. 

"  Mr.  Van  Dyke  is  very  good  reading  indeed,  and 
withal  remarkably  clear  and  precise  in  explaining  much 
that  shapes  itself  but  hazily  in  the  brain  of  those  interested 
in  art." — London  Spectator. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  a  book  in  English  from 
which  one  ctn  learn  more  of  what  pictures  are  and  why 
they  are  admired." — DR.  TALCOTT  WILLIAMS. 

"  Has  all  the  recommendations  that  are  to  be  looked 
for  in  essays  of  the  kind.  They  take  a  broad  survey, 
they  deal  with  the  points  that  it  is  worth  while  to  know 
about,  they  are  perfectly  lucid,  and  they  are  very  charm- 
ing in  their  literary  art." — New  York  Sun. 

"Temperate  and  appreciative." — Atlantic  Monthly. 

"  Written  in  an  easy,  entertaining  style." 

— New  York  Tribune. 


BY  PROFESSOR  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 


Nature  for  Its 
Own  Sake 

First  Studies  in  Natural  Appearances 

i2mo,  $1.50 


"  No  one  can  read  it  without  having  his  knowledge 
of  nature  enlarged,  his  curiosity  quickened,  and  his  sen- 
sitiveness to  the  beauty  that  is  all  about  him  in  the  world 
increased  and  stimulated." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  He  writes  clearly  and  simply  and  indulges  in  little 
rhetoric  or  false  sentiment.  His  « first  studies,'  therefore, 
will  probably  reveal  to  many  people  many  things  of 
which  they  were  unaware." — The  Nation. 

"A  series  of  interesting  and  distinctly  original  essays." 
— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"A  book  of  uncommon  merit,  first,  hi  its  point  of 
view,  and,  second,  in  the  peculiar  skill  with  which  the 
subject  of  nature  is  handled." — Washington  Post. 

"  A  book  on  nature  widely  different  from  anything 
yet  written,  and  fresh,  suggestive,  and  delightful." 

— New  York  Times. 

"A  book  for  all  nature  lovers.  ...  A  most 
delightful  vade  mecum" 

— BLISS  CARMAN  in  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 


BY   PROFESSOR  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 


The    Desert 

Further  Studies  in  Natural 
Appearances 

With  frontispiece,    izmo,  $1.25  net 

"The  reader  who  once  submits  to  its  spell  will  hardly 
lay  it  aside  until  the  last  page  is  turned." 

— The  Spectator  (London). 

"This  charming  volume  comes  as  strong  wine  indeed 
after  the  tepid  rose-water  of  books  dealing  with  snails  and 
daffodils  in  suburban  gardens.  Mr.  Van  Dyke  unques- 
tionably knows  his  desert;  he  has  the  true  wanderer's  eye 
for  its  essential  fascination." — The  Atbenaum  (London). 

"No  virgin  rush  of  young  impressions,  but  an  adult 
mingling  of  vision  and  criticism  in  a  style  that  engages 
without  startling  the  attention." — London  Academy. 

"Strange  and  curious  reading,  this  book  of  the  desert, 
and  has  all  the  fascination  of  things  unaccustomed." 

—New  York  Tribune. 

"The  writer's  personality  is  carefully  subordinated, 
but  one  cannot  help  feeling  it  strongly;  that  of  a  man 
more  sensitive  to  color  than  to  form,  enthusiastic,  but  with 
a  stern  hand  on  his  own  pulse." — Atlantic  Monthly. 


BY  PROFESSOR  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 


The  Opal  Sea 

Continued  Studies  in  Impressions  and  Appearances 

With  Frontispiece.     12mo.  $1.25  net 

"Prof.  Van  Dyke  takes  his  reader's  imagination  cap- 
tive with  prose  in  which  we  feel  the  sea's  own  glamour 
of  beauty  and  movement  and  mystery,  its  glory  of  color 
and  power." — New  York  Tribune. 

" Pleasure  awaits  the  reader  of  'The  Opal  Sea.'" 
— Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

"The  history,  the  poetry,  the  science,  and  the  end- 
less aspects  of  the  sea  are  given  in  a  style  that  will  charm 
all  lovers  of  the  ocean." — The  Independent. 

"Will  be  read  for  the  pleasure  which  the  work  of  a 
skillful  observer  wielding  a  practised  pen  is  bound  to 
give;  and  the  pleasure  will  be  great.  Prof.  Van  Dyke 
is  a  master  of  the  art  of  'seascape'  who  need  fear  no 
comparison." — The  Spectator  (London). 

"No  English  writer,  and  no  other  writer  except 
Michelet,  has  done  as  much  as  Mr.  Van  Dyke  to  arrange 
attractively  what  has  been  in  the  course  of  ages  learned 
about  the  sea." — The  World  (London). 

"  We  strongly  approve  the  combination  of  gifts  which 
represent  Prof.  Van  Dyke's  literary  equipment  and  wish 
to  commend  his  books  most  cordially  to  intelligent 
readers." — The  Standard  (London). 

"Lovers  of  the  sea  and  lovers  of  nature  generally  will 
find  much  to  interest  them  in  this  book,  and  here  and 
there  passages  that  may  enthrall  them." 

— Literary  World  (London). 

"Prof.  Van  Dyke's  being  at  heart  a  poet  of  the  sea 
is  proved  in  his  fine  raptures  on  well-nigh  everything  of 
the  deep." — Daily  Chronicle  (London). 


BY  PROFESSOR  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 


Studies  in  Pictures 

An  Introduction  to  the 
Famous  Galleries 

With  40  Illustrations.     12mo,   $1.25  net 

"Professor  Van  Dyke  is  a  helpful  cicerone,  for  he 
does  not  overpower  the  reader  with  his  theories,  or  force 
upon  him  his  tastes,  or  crush  him  with  the  weight  of  his 
learning,  but  talks  clearly  and  sensibly  about  what  pic- 
tures are  painted  for  and  how  we  can  get  the  most  out 
of  them." — The  Independent. 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  better  or  more  ac- 
complished guide  in  gaining  a  comprehension  of  the 
principles  of  appreciation  as  applied  to  painting." 

—  The  Press  (Philadelphia). 

"Not  only  useful  to  the  unsophisticated,  to  whom  it 
is  admirably  adapted,  but  valuable  to  those  who  have  a 
tendency  to  lose  themselves  in  technicalities." 

—New  York  Times. 

"Mr  Van  Dyke  will  help  the  student  to  understand 
how  pictures  have  been  made  and  how  they  have  been 
brought  together  in  the  great  galleries ;  he  will  show  how 
to  get  at  the  points  of  view  held  by  the  masters,  and  how, 
in  short,  to  use  the  technique  of  art-study. " 

—New  York  Tribune. 

"Much  useful  information  and  suggestive  thought 
in  an  informal  little  volume." — International  Studio. 

"Professor  Van  Dyke  writes  with  his  usual  cool 
good  sense. " — New  York  Evening  Post. 

"An   admirable   introduction   to  travel  or   study." 
— The  Congregationalist. 


BY  PROFESSOR  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 


The  Money  God 

Chapters  of  Heresy  and  Dissent 
Concerning  Business  Methods 
and  Mercenary  Ideals  in 
American  Life. 


£1.00  JVet.     Postpaid 


"A  tremendous  indictment  of  the  degrading  materialism 
now  menacing  both  democracy  and  religion,  as  such  it  should 
be  read  by  all  who  have  at  heart  the  need  of  a  moral  revival." 

—  The  Outlook. 

"  It  is  a  strong  book,  from  a  strenuous  mind,  on  a  neglected 
and  forgotten  phase  of  modern  society." 

—  Boston  Advertiser. 

"  The  book  is  written  in  Mr.  Van  Dyke's  usual  scholarly 
and  fascinating  way,  and  it  should  make  itself  felt  as  an  appeal 
for  a  return  to  moral  standards  in  public  and  private  and 
financial  life."  —  Philadelphia  Record. 

"  As  an  economic  Philippic  the  book  goes  to  the  head  of  the 
class.  It  would  be  well  to  add  it  as  a  text-book  in  the  busi- 
ness courses  of  our  schools  and  colleges." 

—  Springfield  Union. 

"  It  is  stimulating,  frank,  and  often  startling." 

—  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


000  757  480     9 


